Post 7: A fork in the Saigon river....of life

I often say that I’m shy, and that particular utterance tends to generate more laughs than most any of my jokes. Yet shy I am; rarely do I strike up a conversation with strangers, and rarer still do I want them to spark their verbal flints on me. When spoken to, I begin suspicious and proceed to perturbed. If you are a stranger and want to be my friend, email.

Last night at the bar made me want to leave the hotel and check into the Unabomber’s cabin (details to follow), but then today, day 7, there was cause for renewed hope…

But first, some inspiring human interactions of a decidedly less verbal variety:

Day 5, dinner: I’m back to being a solo rider, which is kind of good because now I don’t have to walk like I was wearing a kimono (I know, wrong country). Considered going back to the lunch joint, but I realized there was one more half a block I had missed in my pointillist analysis of the street food of secret Saigon. So back I go, and ultimately discover my favorite meal yet: a cart with little sausages wrapped in leaves then grilled, served with ricepaper wrappers and all the stuff to make spring rolls -- lettuce, basil, mint, cucumber, cold noodles, and ground peanuts -- plus some slices of an unknown (to me) citrus and pale green eggplant. The sausages are absolutely delicious, though each one does have an unfortunate little bit of bone chip in it (par for the neighborhood, I suppose; why kvetch?). Delicious as they were, the portion was still Vietnamese sized, so I confess to giving in and trying the Vietnamese fried chicken on my way home. Lord save this sinner man.

So, on to the bar and all the sadness. I didn’t start out on the right foot, clearly. I’ve already noticed that I always seem to be dressed a bit more upscale than any other foreigners (I wear snug black polo shirts with light, well-cut fatigue-y pants every day), which makes me think I’m giving off more than my usual snobby miasma. But then I show up to the watering hole with my journal and a book (the so far not-short-enough Life of Oscar Wao). I’m forced to sit at a table with a visible wanker from down under and a British guy who looks like that old cartoon of the dopey dog but has teeth that evoke a bike chain made out of teak (did I miss a Sotheby’s auction of George Washington’s dentures?). I nod but don’t say a word, take out my journal, and start writing in my guy-from-Seven microscript. The aussie then asks the winning bidder what he does for a living, to which lumber mouth replies, “I drink.”

Now I’ve always thought it odd that people show up alone in bars without a book or journal in hand. But apparently they thought it odd that I showed up with both, and with a vintage tobacco pipe that I took out, loaded, and began puffing away on. From that point, there was no chance of anyone speaking to the dauphin.

Being ostracized was merciful, as it turns out (and often is), because behind me I heard a Vietnamese guy using such pathetic racial and homophobic slurs (though I grant they were new to my ears), that they’re not worth repeating. I was so appalled, I gulped my beer down as fast as it would go and went back to my room to pout.

Sleep was fitful, up for matins, which in my church is beginning to involve noodles.

Day 6, breakfast.

My brother wrote me being concerned that my food experiences might taper off; instead, I opted to take a page out of his autobiography in progress, tentatively titled How to Eat Two Farmer’s Breakfasts and Other at-the-Table Atrocities.

It happened by accident. Still sampling every spicy pho that morning secret Saigon has to offer, I stumbled upon a place with that deep orange/red color stock one seeks out, and marvelous-looking glistening chunks barely concealed by the bubbling. I sit; the proprietor/cook (how nice that that’s always the same person) gestures and asks if I want flank steak with it -- who would say no? -- and I watch her dunk it in a broth for 15 seconds then into a bowl with noodles. I turn to make a note in my journal about thin-sliced flank steak, and look up to find in front of me a bowl…of clear broth. Oh no! Clearly when I opted for the steak, that meant I got the other soup, and now I was in the Lindsey Weiss memorial how-do-I-eat-this-meal-if-it’s-not-spicy pickle.

Bro, I burnt an offering at your altar. Down goes one pho, noodles and all (and note the green leaf here ; it was added with basil for flavor and was as delicious as unknown to me), then I asked for the red one and ate that to the porcelain, generating very wide eyes all around me. When I paid, we all started laughing. I proceeded to waddle back to the hotel.

Day 6, lunch

You will not be surprised to hear that lunch came late, but you might be surprised at how long it could have lasted. It began innocently enough: I walked back to District 4 for a final go-around (I leave Vietnam tomorrow) and to try to get the legume potage I saw a woman selling the first time, plus anything else I missed. Sadly, I was a little late for most of the market, but did manage to score a nice pork skewer from a woman who was inordinately pleased that I bought and photographed it. (Again, in this neighborhood, all the adults stare, all the kids point at me – and many scream “hellaw” – but when I wave they all seem more than a little amused). The potage lady was gone; in my bereaved bewilderment, a banh mi vendor grabbed my arm firmly and smilingly entreated me to get one (but it was the grilled pork I had already had – can’t repeat!), kept laughing and calling out to the neighborhood (who en masse were steadily emerging from their homes) and wouldn’t let me go till I charaded a stomach sign and then squeezed my fist to say (falsely) that I was full. Then I was freed.

Back across the bridge I went (much less fun going with the traffic and not being able to make eye contact with the gawking girls on motos). My only hope was that the final block from last night might have different offerings at lunch than dinner. Indeed, ecstasy: got a stuffed bun for tomorrow’s bus trip (I don’t know what’s in it, but they ranged in price from 5,000 dong to 10, so I opted for the fancy one, following my recently adopted buy-the-most-expensive-thing-at-the-cheapest-place policy, which I think Ron is also subscribing to), as well as a meat/vegetable pile on rice for tomorrow, and a sausage banh mi that sent me over the moon.

But that’s when things got interesting. As I’m eating the transcendent wurst (can’t have that one either, Vic), a 50-or-so year-old woman comes out of a shop and tells me, in English, to put the sauce on the sandwich (which I had already done but of course did again). She then asks where I’m from; I compliment her on her accent and asked how she learned; she said only had a Vietnamese teacher but she’s very intelligent, and then she drops the grenade. “You should come talk with me. I had a husband but I divorced him many years ago. So you have nothing to worry about.”

Trust me when I say that the implications were clear. My Saigon visit could continue – as long as I wanted. Our “talk” was going to be very deep – and thorough. Suddenly I find myself feeling less than prolix, so I said that I had to go and that I was leaving tomorrow. She says she runs her own salon and fruit stand, both right there, and that I should take her number and call her whenever I wanted (her name is also An, like the lady from 2 nights ago, and seeing it on the marquis, I realize here it’s a 2-letter job). I get more nervous. I say I can maybe come by tomorrow before I leave (though my bus is at 6 a.m). She says yes to come. And, like the shy, or nervous, or chickenshit, or stupid, or all-of-the-above person I am, I scuttle away, sweating through my shirt.

Sipping iced green tea from a sidewalk cart two blocks away (which costs 7 cents, by the way, with refills), the possibilities are suppurating: My bad-hair life would be a thing of the past; I’d learn the names of all the mystifying fruits I’ve been seeing; I could be initiated to the secrets of the East (if that’s not merely West orientalizing); I could direct foreign clientele to her salon; and I could probably get bulk discounts on the sausage banh mis out in front. It would be a life, perhaps even an excellent life. But, alas, dear reader, you knew it was coming: I am too shy.

post 6: on my own petard

Post 6:

A note on hypocrisy: fear not, dear reader, my own Olympian levels are not lost on me. Too true that I flee the skin color I bear (and occasionally bare); I scorn the traveler I am; were I to see my mythic double-going me saunter up to a food stall, I would shake my head, sad that I hadn’t walked far enough, and trudge on in search of more decay. Anthropology, gastronomic or otherwise, is a privilege, but more so is the ability to deceive yourself that you’ve outpaced your own identity, sloughed one skin and slid into a new, perhaps less white, less rich, less coddled. But don’t worry; I fool myself as little as I fool you.

Day 4, dinner

That said, I make exceptions for the white and sweet (the chaps, angel food cake, sarah…). So they come by, convinced now of my truffle-finding snout and the wisdom of following it (though my gait has proven to be a significant problem). It’s their last night, so I take them for crab claws
I saw in secret Saigon. Knowing that shell-crackers are a western luxury that this time we won’t be able to indulge, we all have molars on the mind as I lead them down the muddy path to tastiness. I also wanted to take them to the pho stand where I met Anne, but when we arrive it’s not there, no trace. We make up for it by sampling the gantlet (no typo -- we don’t eat gloves): the crab claws warmed on a grill and served with the omnipresent salt/pepper mixture (very yummy, but I can honestly say I far prefer the hassle-free bang for buck of shrimp); then Mick had the Fluf-tuber omelet, which he loved; Martin and I had liver pate banh mis (dangerous, but very very yummy), then a plate of Chinese-style fried noodles w/ greens (first leafy one I’ve had yet, ironically), and 4 different types of dumplings, which we ate in the bia hoi bar (and the beer was much better, pretty much draft PBR at $1/liter). That, my dearies, is eating a block.

We then retired to the cheaper, shittier, whiter, closer, but also, as long as they’re my company, more fun bia hoi bar on my block, where their abilities as English provincial drinkers are finally put on display.

I sleep soundly.

Day 5: Morning

For the first time, there isn’t one. I awake at 6 briefly, then sleep again till 10. Finally. Sleep, in the Bard’s words, “knits the raveled sleeve of care…” Indeed.

Day 5: Lunch

Final outing with the gents, we go to take the strolls Genevieve’s brother recommended and to eat another block, on his suggestion. When we get to the latter, it’s fancy and quiet, almost soporific at this point not being almost-mown by motorbike at every step, and at first we fear mistake, as there are no food stalls to speak of.

. A grill restaurant (not so good for Mick), then nothing till we come across the motherlode: a big spread with outdoor seating and thirty-odd dishes to choose from (it took me three pics to get it all)
I order us each a different fish dish so we can all share and taste everything. The winner, as is often the case, was the giant sardines. Oil might as well share a named with spoon; it is the flavor ladle, as we know, but occasionally that’s lost on me (though not on my brother, who has been bringing home rendered duck fat to cook all his meals in. Donations to Hillary’s purple heart fund can be sent directly to me…).

Interestingly, this meal costs about three times what the others have, but no real surprise. And it is pretty much the best thing yet; they’re both blown away, and since they’re leaving in a few hours, a happy guide am I.

Post 5: The threat of crime

Before we proceed to the next update there are a few points of business: it has been brought to my attention that I am following good blog form by piebalding my posts with typos, there apparently they’re they’re and everywhere. I will try to be more assiduous, lest my writers think I can’t edit or my students think I don’t practice what I preach (because we know I do so well following my precepts the rest of the time….).

Second, and no doubt of more interest to you, is the rum fact that my brother’s responses to my posts have been more amusing than the posts themselves, though I’m ostensibly the writer in the family. I’m sure he’d be willing to share if you email him, or I can forward on request.

Also I changed my profile photo due to an abundance of questions if it was taken from outer space and/or in the 80s. My apologies; I actually thought that was a good one.

And last, apparently my wording in the coffee vendor tale made it sound like I might have brought a “little friend” on this trip and that I was soon to get married. Both of those things were once true, but now they’re about as out of date as the photo.

On to the meals, oh, I mean the deep cultural investigation.

Day 3, evening. Dinners are dodgy. I’m afraid of the traffic once it gets dark, and there’s no chance in hell I’m eating anywhere near my hotel, none. So tonight I went back to the street I had discovered (the last there is) in my tried and true secret Saigon. Sitting down at a crowded banquette an 80-something year-old woman asks me in French if I’m French. We proceed to speak a bit in the gallic; she’s very sweet and named Anne (at least as she told me) and then gets extremely shy when I ask to take her picture. “The years for that are passed,” she says, though of course I don’t think so.

Most of you know I’m somewhat obsessed with old people (maybe because I knew 5 of my greatgrandparents – as well as my greatgreat aunt Dot – and had all 4 of my grandparents till I was 37). My new book is actually dedicated to my grandpa walter who I spent close to a month with near his death 2 years ago, watching him systematically lose everything that made him the man’s man and the inspiration that he was. It was very hard on him (and me), and, like many old people, he pretty much just let himself starve to death to forgo further indignity. He never read a word of literature in his life, but he believed in nothing more than education, and has always been my great source of inspiration.

Oh my, sorry about that. Not the right time to get all teary, is it? Isn’t this supposed to be a food blog? Anyway, the soup was in fact delicious, then anne left, and, as I’m leaving, I thank everyone and say goodbye in French without realizing till after. Fucking idiot.

Sarah teases me because I, like my 2-yr-old nephew Billy, approach the unknown by putting it in my mouth. In my case that means i always order the dish on the menu or steamtable that I can’t identify. So walking back from my colonial bungle, still on the same block, I see and have to order a god-knows-what that a lady has frying on a flat wok. Turns out to be some kind of tuber, I think, something like a cross between a potato and a noodle, even more doughy than cassava or fu-fu (and, no, Vic, you can’t use More .Doughy Than Fu-Fu for your band name because I already have). The woman clears a space in the middle of her pan and cooks an omelet with this Fluf-root. The end result tastes rather like the frittatas I make at home with Chinese leftovers, i.e., not so great.

Then I see a real bia hoi bar -- no crackers -- but it’s only six so I can’t start the evening’s pouring yet. And I suspect that no one would or could talk to me anyway; I would just look funny, drink a liter or two, and leave. Authentic, but authentically lonely-making.

Apropos of sketchy autochthonic alcohol, in passing I want to thank those of you who have likened my inhaling and guzzling to that of another obnoxoid, the intrepid Anthony Bourdain (I took it as a great honor last year when two friends, independent of each other, started tivoing episodes of No Reservations for me without me ever having mentioned the show). Only problem is, the more I do my sniffing and munching, the more my envy of him and his work sinks its fangs in, to the point where I think I might end up pulling a Tanya Harding on him one of these days (but with a french rolling pin). That is, of course, right after I get Leia’s slave-chains and garrote Harold Bloom…

The evening ends as per: 2 liters of bia hoi, chatting with me chaps (who truly make anyone else who happens to speak to us seem inordinately dull by comparison), being temporarily locked out of my hotel till I roused the desk guy from his back bedroom (he looked thrilled), and I tucked in for my nightly 3 hours.

Day 3, Middle of the night

When the hell do you think I find time to do this?

Day 4 breakfast

So despite the revelations of yesterday (and I’m sure you all were joining right along, spending that extra 70 cents in acts of unfettered rapture), I got the house breakfast today. No, I didn’t eat it – don’t worry, I just wrapped it up and put it in my bag for latenight snacking, since I seem to sleep only from about 1:30-4:30 and then again for an hour or so during the day. That 4:30 – 7 shift gets me a little peckish, so a peanut butter sandwich will come in very handy. (again in passing, why is it that peanut butter, like hamburgers, always sucks abroad? Is there great arcana to their manufacture? of course, we can’t seem to brew a decent beer – unless you like hops with your hops. Yuck)

The morning banh mi was only okay, and then I came back to wait for the gents so I could take them on a tour recommended to me by genevieve moore’s brother, who has lived here 15 years. He emailed and told me of a particular street that he thinks has excellent cart food, and I intend to eat the entire block. (Andrew, Herr Comestor, I could use you right now). I told him where I had been walking to and eating, and he said he was “astounded,” calling this city, apart from a tiny little area, “unwalkable.” I have to say, that put even more spring in my sinusoidal dork stride.

Mick shows up solo to say that Martin has to cancel, apparently having been waylaid by a local lady who on their first day had made him a few oeillades (and that is not a food item -- I believe such things go with the Kris Kristofferson turf). Incidentally, despite hearing that as a single man I’d be accosted by ladies of the night, day, and afternoon, i have yet to be approached even once. Leif Ueland, care to explain (www.nerve.com/PersonalEssays/Ueland/StraightMale/)? Or is it just evidence that I’m not bullshitting you about the less-travelledness of the neighborhoods I’ve been frequenting.

So I take Cousin It back through our steps from yesterday, looking for a few fish dishes that in the rearview mirror we were sad we had eschewed. We ended up getting some excellent shrimp soup, though it also had 5 or so different kinds of what some might call scary manifestations of pig, so he filled my bowl with all his chunks and I gave him back all my shrimp. Meanwhile the proprietor/cook and her friends start imitating my speaking (apparently this is good sport) and punching my arm. Unprovoked playful strikes by 70-yr-old female strangers with whom I share no languages -- that I love. After much misadventure, I find out the soup is called Bun mam (there are diacriticals missing). Good but pretty straightforward, punching optional.

Off to put this up. The photos to accompany will be delayed, as my psyche can’t take another incarceration in the internet café, and my dinky laptop, Fudgie, thinks the world is moving a little too fast for his taste, and now gets rather befuddled and sad with certain programs like a shy man finding himself on the wrong bus. Poor Fudgie.

day 3: friends and pho

forgive me, gentles, the pun was unavoidable

last night i spoke again with the english chaps and could tell they were intrigued by my gustatory tourism and devil-may-care selection of venues. so i proposed taking them to Cholon, Saigon's chinatown (with temples like this one
), which was rumored to be yet more teeming and chaotic, things i appreciate much in cities and the minds of women.

they were enthused, and despite my proustian tendencies, it was nice to have more than 18 words to use to interact with people for a change. since i still haven't downloaded my photos (this old laptop can't seem to manage), i'll just tell you that martin looks like kris kristofferson, and mick like jerry garcia mixed with gandalf (here he is drinking what's not a spirulina shake -- see below)
. so they're good mates -- not like old people tourists, just like me: toting chronological years but somehow still imagining that we're 20.

so the day started wonderfully as i found a spicy pho on the sidewalk minutes from my door that was a deep brick color and had all the requisite unidentifiables in it -- very yummy (. but that particular pho was no mere soup; in a way, it represented a psychological breakthrough for me. here's why: i left the hotel at a normal time (neither 6 a.m. nor 10 like the last two days) and discovered that they provide free breakfast for us here: a baguette and peanut butter and jam. now all of you who know me at all know that i've never once turned down free food and i love peanut butter almost as much as i love my brother Erik. and yet, there i was, walking out the door without even taking one to put in my bag for later. the chains, thrown off. for some people the limen must be coming out of the closet, for others admitting that they don't want to run their father's business, but for me it was allowing myself to realize (and act upon) the fact that i genuinely wanted something and felt entitled to it, even if it was going to cost me an extra 70 cents. the actualized among you are probably chortling over your Fresh Samanthas right now (bottled icon of that which i covet but will never allow myself), but for me it was a big deal.

so a good start, plus i was smiling for one more reason that a certain someone knows. my secret.

and then the gents came along, and walk we did a few kilometers to chinatown, stopping to introduce martin to peking duck (what kind of Beatrice, guiding my charge through a roadside food Paradiso, would i be if i left that out?). skin not as good as at Noodletown, but incredible dipping sauce and some scallions, cucumber, and wood ear to go with it. very nice.

by the time we were in deep, i dragged them through every dark, thatch-roofed market block i could. mick is a vegetarian, poor guy, so he missed out on the porkchop right off the charcoal (like what you get w/ rice -- _so_ yummy) and looked dubiously at most of the things i was considering. but then we stopped for tea, the last patrons under the roof of a closing market , and ended up being served by six women all in a tizzy over the way Mick said No, no, no, no when they'd ask him if he wanted various things. one imitated him (pretty well) and from that point on, we were all smiling widely.

finally, before taking the bus back, we had a noodle dish
served in a bag that looked like it maybe needed to be cooked, made out of the ricepaper wrappers for spring rolls cut into thin strips. but again we were being fussed over and told to sit down, so i took it that meant it was to be eated as is, and wow, the perfect combo of vietnamese flavors: the fried onions, fish sauce, fresh curry leaves, lime, etc etc. (see above) pushing a big wad into your mouth like it was shredded dried squid or Redman, it dissolved a little and transformed into a spongy, chewy, deliciousness. amazing. then a spirulina-looking minty cucumber drink (as per photo above) and home we went.

i think the chaps enjoyed themselves, and i believe my approach of Eat everything, Smile at every old lady, Wave at anyone who looks at you, Say the numbers and thank you and anything else you can in vietnamese , Sign how much you like the food, Laugh when you're being laughed at, Turn into every dark labyrinth, and Go everywhere on foot worked for them. right now, there must be a few hundred people trying to describe Mick's beard, A Star Is Born must be checked out at every video shop, and a few dozen women aged 30 - 90 must be thinking that i'm going to stroll back through their neighborhood tomorrow and ask for their hand in marriage. all good things, it seems.

post 3: day two, The Hobknobber Principle

My pets,

Plan for day two: Follow up on some of my brother’s experiences here. First agenda: attempt to find the locus of what he termed “shit alley,” to which he appends: “The shit, in case you are wondering, was all human. Dog shit doesn’t leave the same kind of memory.” He nonetheless assures me of finding excellent soup and the opportunity to get a less-than-one-dollar, post-punk (if accidentally) haircut. I seem to recall he also got his ears scoured by a man with a testtube cleaner – clearly the cumulative wisdom of 10 millennia of eastern medicine. Sadly he can’t remember where he saw the bottles of snake “wine” (he brought some home and we tried the stuff – it was grain alcohol with a cobra and some spices in it -- tasted like celery-salt kerosene) and the giant vat (for those more enterprising who brought their own bottles) that contained 50-odd various snakes and a whole crow -- in full feather. I’m keeping an empty 2-litre fanta bottle with me just in case. My brother is clearly my brother.

Ok, due to my odd sleep schedule, didn’t make it to the central market till 10, and it was already overrun. Wow do white people look fat and pasty (oh wait, it’s because their aussies). But I wanted to find out what yesterday’s crazy noodle dish was, and I was armed with the vital phrase “what do you call this” that I learned from two Vietnamese college girls who stopped me on the street and asked if I’d fill out a survey on communication in Vietnam (and no this is not the beginning of a Penthouse letter...)

It turns out the noodle is called bahn beo, which is explained rather well 2/3 of the way down this chowhound post: http://chowhound.chow.com/topics/576591
I was unable to do any more searching, as both google and yahoo here bring up their Vietnamese versions, so I can’t get anything in English. Alas.

From there the morning went rather downhill. The market was annoying, and I managed to eat bad Chinese-style noodles, thinking they were shredded squid. I no longer endorse that whole neighborhood and will never return. Then I went on a especially dusty and smog-filled goose chase through a charmless zone with perpetual peleton-like moto traffic, looking for another bridge over the river (it was on the map but is closed). Thankfully I got a cheap alveoli transplant on the way home and then went back to bed.

I had meant to return to district 4 (they aren’t called sectors, apparently, and, I’m told, the war is over), but I had to respond to so many emails teasing me about using facebook that the early afternoon got away from me. So I went back to my skanky snail alley (by the by, both my personal epidemiologist, dave kaufman, and my stepmother, a china expert, both cautioned against me taking in more asian shellfish in slums, but why trust them?) looking for the meatball bahn mi that eluded me yesterday. I tracked it like a guided missile. It was sold to me by one of the now 5 people I’ve seen in my life with that disease that gives you shockingly disfiguring bumps all over your skin -- in one extreme case the worst human deformation I’ve ever seen. Hers was very mild, mercifully. Still, not the best meatballs. And for a moment I thought I felt an internal gurgle. False alarm.

Next a trip back to yesterday’s fish cart where I had a whole one this time, also very yummy. Then through the other half of the sidewalk market by the river and under the bridge (pretty clearly the poorest of the poor parts of Saigon that I’ve seen yet) and sat down for a bowl of soup. Now, it’s an unspoken but religious sentiment in my family (at least between bro and me) that if the lady serving you food has three or fewer teeth, none of which in remote proximity to any of the others, that is a good sign. (though not agreed upon, I’m sure we would both call this the hobknobber principle, based on the café in new Orleans where I was asked, “How it was?!”). Spotting just such a woman crouched next to an enormous pot, i approached with interest. Now at least two further of my private principles were in play: 1) always eat under bridges by the river (preferably having just stepped out of your van-home), and 2) always get soup that has congealed blood cakes in it, even if you, like me, feel that congealed blood cakes – especially when floridly spiced – are perhaps the one food on the planet you know you don’t like. Get the soup, avoid the puddings.

The confluence of these made me feel that her cauldron -- what with the fish balls, wontons, pig tubes, and winter melon floating in it -- might give erik’s shit-alley special a run for its money. And my friends, it was sublime.

Now I was on a roll, and discovered one more street that I can endorse, packed with food stalls. Despite dave and beth’s advice, I couldn’t not round out lunch with a few fried shrimp, especially because they were still legged and with shells and embedded into the sides of a donut crueller (with a hot ketchup and chili dipping sauce) -- yummy (the legs provide a nice countercrunch to the donuty softness). Tomorrow or the next day I’ll go back and try the muslimy brik-looking thing that I saw (while hearing some middle eastern music) and the stuffed chilis that looked incredible.

So a bad day saved. Home now, I notice that the fan in my room says Asia in big letters. Yes, asia fan, I say back. Me too.

2nd asia post: dangers abound

all (lovelies)

it looks like my strategy for saigon is going to be that whenever i see the beaten path, to beat it. the LP guidebook (which i heard someone unsarcastically call The Bible) says most tourists never make it out of sectors 1, 3, and 5, so i took the 20-minute stroll to the river and across, into sector 4, where something between adventure and abduction beckoned...

along the way, vicarious gastronomes, i thought i'd take my GI tract for a workout at the heavy bag with some roadside snails and clams, wolfed down on the most disreputable alley i've seen yet (it literally took only 4 minutes to escape all honky-ville and emerge into narrow unpaved streets hung with laundry and teeming with pregnant dogs. haven't seen scenes like these since india)

also stopped for this intricately spiced fried fish -- utterly incredible (the clams, by the way, were very delicate, as were the smaller white with brown boxes snails; the slightly larger ones less exciting, and none living up to the giant snails that were on the Balthazar shellfish Babel that jeremy -- shout out, homie -- treated his all-beef moving crew to back in the day.

i sat down to eat the fish but got no laughs for my travails with the raw chilis i hoped to use as a cultural icebreaker/shibboleth. still, the endorphin spike was nice. then i noticed that the whole back of the dingy dark frontless space i was in was filled with women packing what looked to be tourist=trap salesman kits. i started writing in my journal about the fish, and i think the proprietor thought i was writing about the women and sat at the stool next to me and gave me the evil eye. i tried to show that i was writing about the food, then i said i was a "teacher" and he took up my vietnamese/english book and we both practiced pronunciation (don't ever attempt to say their word for "help"), and all was well.

the alien then crossed the bridge, watching a skiff propelled by foot-oars trace over the muddy eddies.

i was in the provinces.
a group of boys called out Hello to me and punched each other when i responded, clearly embarrassed. this was a "The Weird Guy Spoke Back" thing, which i've experienced before (like in high school). now i'm getting continuous eyeballs from nearly everyone, somewhat suspicious but still friendly. i'm walking through a long sidewalk market of shockingly diverse beautiful fruits and greens. (conner, i could deviate from my daily kale here...) until i saw and approached a cart with big heaping bowls of pickled shredded evil-chili-laden salad looking things, very colorful. my interest and bafflement drew a communal whoop from the women nearby. eventually i explained that i wanted to try them (the salads), but couldn't get across that i only wanted a little (as they seemingly sold them by the kilo), until i took a small bag from my bag and pinched off the corner. now a crowd has formed and i get my salad and start to eat it and it's good but not great (the way all the side dishes are at the broome st bahn mi). then, however there was some confusion because a fruitseller is asking me some questions, and i have no idea, and am just trying to say that i like the salad (though my friggin phrasebook doesn't include such esoteric lexography as "good" or "delicious" -- presumably because it's for brits and aussies who only eat pasta when they're abroad). so i'm saying what i can say, and it turns out that they're not talking about the food, they're talking about the coffee vendor, a woman in her late 40s. i figure it out when someone says, You boy, She girl, and then quickly find the "i'm here with my girlfriend" line in the book (which i had originally wondered why they bothered...), pointed to my ring finger (though vacant), translated We are here on holiday, and scampered off and away from all the laughter.
in retrospect, and considering how good the coffee here is, i might have missed the love of my life.

long nap. then the quest for bia hoi, "fresh beer," the one-day-shelf-life low-alcohol slightly fruity less-than-a-buck-a-liter beerish stuff my bro said i must find and consume with abandon. all the bars with palefaces made me nervous, so i zip again into my secret saigon but only find a place to have bottled beer and stir-fried beef (delicious). i sit down alongside gangsters with their heinekens, me with my saigon (i've long wondered why southeast asian gangsters always drink heineken -- no joke. anyone know? that's market cornering!)

finally back to my hood and the one bia hoi place i'd seen, very crowded, half local half white, and i sit and drink a liter ultimately getting into a conversation with a pair of 60yrold brit travelers, the kind who trek for a year at a time to places like Goa. They were sweet and we talked a lot about books (they prompted but then were gracious even after my predictable excoriations of kerouac, orwell, and ouellebecq). nice to speak a bit, and nice to go to sleep a little tipsy. maybe i will dodge jet lag completely.

a fine first day all around

love, the b-c b

first asia post: alive and three-breakfasted

hello all

for those who don't know, i turned in my book friday and then zipped off for 6 weeks in asia. first stop: saigon.

survived the what turned out to be a 41-hour door-to-door trip, clearly losing all my proletarian warrior cred by extending my business-class flight beds and cognac-ing and sleeping my way through much of it. utterly painless, except rereading Great Gatsby which is decidedly overrated, and some vile short stories by DH Lawrence and Italo Calvino, the latter of which also makes the all-overrated list.

also opted for the extra $3/night single room w/ shower vs. dorm and inflicting my apnia snore-croaks on everyone. self-interest once again masquerading as altruism.

woke at 6:30 this morning feeling great. went out and to the central market. i understand bro why you couldn't cross the street until the old lady took your arm (and led him straight into the traffic for those of you who don't know this story. i love the image of the 90yr-old woman who comes up to the viking's shoulder, just takes him by the elbow, clearly realizing what's going on, and saves the day).


i'm off to an incredible start on the food front.

had the best iced coffee of my life to start things off. then a kind of roast pork banh mi sandwich from the old woman in this photo , then a banh mi sandwich -- fletch anyone? -- shredded meat this time, and, like the first one, a bit lackluster and dinky. i have to say, i'm spoiled. neither was bad, the problem is just that they couldn't compare to the sublime #1 on broome st in NY. this was my bro's experience too; he ate 2 banh mis a day for 10 days in vietnam and never found one better than outside my apartment door at home.


but then i found this insane plate of radically unidentifiable things (while being roundly pointed to and laughed at) in the central market . various kinds of firm jelly noodles lozenges, some with shrimp inside, covered with cilantro, a cooked chive hash, an orange powder, chilis, fish sauce, etc. -- incredible. ron, you needed to be here. make sure to click on the pics if you really want to see; they're hi-res, so there's lots of detail.

so, 3 bkfasts and 2 iced coffees in, i'm back in my room, intending to go back to this, the central market,
to eat again soon. they must not get much honkie traffic because everyone seems very amused at my presence and culinary choices. near my hotel however one hears german. must flee.

oh, and they also seem to find my now 12 words of vietnamese rather comical. bro, haven't been able to use "tit vit" yet. hopefully soon. it seems the language problems cut both ways though, as i saw a young woman wearing a t'shirt that said "Take" across her bosom.

already filling my journal with excellent oddities. too many to list. my favorite, perhaps, an old man whose toenails i noticed seemed most of the way to becoming black/gray ash.

on that note, off to lunch. it seems that American and "noodle" are homonyms in vietnamese. that's all the hint i need...

love to all, j