I have measured out my life with instant coffee packets

I apologize to Frankie Muniz, but the following post is PG 13.

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Each morning I rise to the same rousing routine, which, sadly to say, centers around a harrowing addiction I like to call the beverage breakfast. I peel off my limited edition “Caroline in the City” comforter, walk over to Scott’s bed, softly kiss his forehead, make sure he’s bundled up tight in his bounty of blankets, and then make fast for the faucet. I turn the tap and am met with a friendly flow that’s home to a microscopic wonderland. Now granted, there are some times when I start to think that yeah, my intestines have had it way too good for way too long. That maybe I should joust them off their high horse and lap up a bit of this thriving ecosystem. But in the end, as in all situations, I find my mind wondering to that aquatic epic written and directed by Kevin Costner, and I realize that water has already hurt enough people. So I fill my water cooker to a strange line that reads “0.5L” and boil the contents.

Then, as all of those well meaning pathogens, which could have met a perfectly happy end living it up in some delightful Petri dish, are fatally scorched, I try also to put to death all of my many impossible longings. Most notably would be the desire for a more expansive roster of East Asian imports.

However, I am constantly surprised by those enticing entities that the U.S. has chosen to send to other side of the world. These are the true American ambassadors, and you won’t find them stamping visas at any embassy, but rather, lining the shelves of the many markets that situate themselves throughout the city. In this case, I have had to forgo my fondness of a fresh brew from that wonderful well, known as the coffee maker, and instead, resign myself to mixing this newly liberated liquid with a packet of instant powder. I’m not sure why the former has never really caught on here. Like any good American complaint though, this can be directed at the French and their freedom press, which is strangely popular here.

Most Americans, from my experience, don’t usually flock to instant mix, but for whatever reason, it reigns as the import of choice. This cultural divide of preference doesn’t end there though, but sometimes expands as one moves from the field of consumable commodities to those of a more expressive nature.

Last week, on Thanksgiving in fact, a first year student approached my desk in the following inquisitive fashion. She held out a legal pad with the phrase “long ass games” neatly written on it in perfect penmanship. She asked me what it meant and I had no answer. I gave “ass” the semantic benefit of the doubt, figuring that this phrase must be drawing on some strange outdated meaning. In turn, I was clueless and told her as such. However, she still wasn’t satisfied, even when I gave her the standard response that typically results from being backed into a linguistic corner. “I’m sorry, it must be some term not used in American English.”

“No, that can’t be. I read it in an American novel.” She crumbled my only defense. I wasn’t going to get off that easy.

“What novel?” I asked, expecting to hear the name of some classic American text that has long regaled its readers with its tales of heroic Michael Landon-esque pioneers. I figured the phrase alluded to some type of contest in which children gathered around the tallest donkey and attempted to be the first to mount the creature.

I was a bit naïve.

She removed a piece of paper from a notebook she was carrying and pointed to a set of underlined words etched near the top of the page. “How Stella Got Her Groove Back.” I suddenly felt sorry for Tennessee Williams and any other author whose fictional Stella had just been internationally dethroned by this new protagonist, doing all that she could to get her “groove” back.

At this point I had a better idea of what this fragment in question might mean. I told her that, in American slang, sometimes “ass” is placed after an adjective to amplify its meaning. Then, just so I would be able to sleep at night, I advised her never to use this grammatical device in the classroom.

In light of all this, you have to give T.S. Eliot the nod. I think he summed it up pretty well when he wrote…..

“In the room the women come and go
Talking of Tony Orlando.”

I'm Going Back to Charm School

This upcoming Tuesday, November 20th, is Vietnamese Teacher Day, and it’s not just some Hallmark sponsored holiday created to sell seasonally specific stationary. However, that’s not to suggest that there will never be a Teacher Day Television Channel that loops syndicated servings of Mash and Walker Texas Ranger. Regardless, it’s a genuine celebration of appreciation for the country’s educators, a role that, in accordance with Vietnam’s Confucian tradition, cannot be overemphasized.

In some of the more traditional cities and towns that comprise this land, a country trying so hard to find its place between the teetering tension of modernization and heritage, it’s not uncommon for an educator to carry the lifelong title of teacher, (thay for men and co for women) even when conducting the most casual of conversations with former students from many years past. Quite simply, once a teacher, always a teacher.

As one who has clumsily stumbled into this pristinely prized position mainly on the crude credential of growing up in a country of English speakers, such devotion is quite a sobering notion. As a teacher, you convey much more than the subject or process preceding each number on some school issued scholastic schedule. Every action, in and out of the classroom, becomes an important part of the course’s curriculum, completely independent of whether or not it ever appears on any administered exam. This holiday is a testimony to that fact.

Last Thursday, a class of first year students presented me with a brightly colored bouquet, which, judging by the floral stockpile accumulating here in the guesthouse between the five of us, is the standard token of educational appreciation. As a guy, it was a new experience receiving such a gift, but luckily, that day, I happened to be wearing a flannel pants suit, which, of course, was sleeveless. I mean nothing makes a better canvas for a tat of your own face than a huge bulging bicep. Needless to say, I still felt tough.

On Tuesday, our classes are cancelled, and in their stead, we will attend an assembly held in honor of the institute’s academic antagonists, otherwise know as, the teachers. Taking place in the nation of Vietnam, the ceremony will, surprisingly enough, be conducted in Vietnamese. In turn, as is the regular routine, I will follow the cues from those surrounding me in the stands, and, from their example, attempt to smile and laugh and nod and clap at the appropriate times. They could be telling me that only films like Over the Top, which expose what the once glorious sport of American arm wrestling has sadly become, are true forms artistic expression. It doesn’t matter, if the audience agrees, then so do I. But seriously, and in all honesty, I really am looking forward to the event.

However, I do have some possible ideas of how this occasion could be momentously manifested back in the states. Here it goes.

On Tuesday, TBS will air, in their prime time slot, a special showing of that moving movie that made all of us realize that regardless of how different our backgrounds may be, all of us, if taught by someone with just the right amount of enthusiasm, endurance, and scripted sass, can in fact slay that daunting demon called calculus. Additionally, each commercial break will begin with short clips of dialogue between Lou Diamond Phillips and his high school drama teacher. Lou will explain that, above all else, this man showed him that the name Diamond shouldn’t be monopolized by some spandex laden lead singer who is, coincidently enough, “hot for teacher.”


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Also, Congrats to Jess "Blade" Feller who just got engaged. I'm sure she will be really good at matrimony.

Deep like a graveyard. Wild like T.V.

Today I was eating Vietnamese flan (caramen) with a student when he said, at least to my American ears, a very peculiar thing. It was along the following lines. “I want to invite you to my home for dinner with my family, but since my grandmother has recently died, we haven’t been able to fix up the house.”

Okay, at this point, I could do one of two things. Either chalk it up as another strange cultural quirk that’s bound to develop in a country destitute of Nascar and move on. (By the way, Microsoft Word just put a red line under Nascar, and, as such, I’m asking all of you to boycott this obviously Al Qaeda loving computer program.) Or rack my brain and put to use all of those ingenious investigate techniques I learned from that brilliant cinematic masterpiece, Corky Romano.

Needless to say, I chose the latter, and judging by the fact that there are only four hits on the official movie website, I’m sure that Frost would commend me for taking this road less traveled.

With very genuine interest I asked him exactly what he meant, a question he has grown used to and I believe appreciates. I mean without understanding, you’ve got nothing. In turn, I took off my denim tasseled 10-gallon hat, placed it on my lap, hoped dearly that my jeans and the newly touching tassels wouldn’t ignite, and prepared to absorb. This is what I found.

Apparently, when a close family member passes away, certain activities are prohibited for that first post-mortem year. From my newfound understanding, which is anything but a fortified factual Frommer’s, one such action is making your house a more expensive place. Another is attending weddings. This behavioral theme of familial fasting is to allow those surviving loved ones to more fully mediate on the life and memory of that person who has passed. It may, to our Western worldview, seem a bit intense, but you have to admire and respect that devoted dedication.

As is often the case, he was surprised to find that no American cultural counterpart exists and that we have no similar traditions to promote such thoughtful abstaining.

And that’s fine. It’s just culture, a neutral entity. However, as one who also lost a grandmother quite recently, it most certainly drives me to protect that memory more so than before.

The Sea is Foaming Like a Bottle of Beer

The three guys sitting quietly by themselves in their parent’s basement that actually read this thing, while taking a break from some intense fantasy role play of course, might actually be interested in knowing a little more about the Vietnamese worldview, a subject I myself am fully under-qualified to even address. However, by simply existing in a new culture and taking on the modest role of a learner, you do, once in a while, stumble upon an experience that illustrates some aspect of this abstract entity that you yourself would otherwise be quite unable to articulate. The following recounts the most recent of these overseas epiphanies.

Last week, our team took a train south to the wonderful city of Vinh in order to observe the lives of teachers from our organization who are participating in the University Teaching Program (UTP). For those of you who are neither familiar with the nearly recent history of the SRV or with the upbeat musical stylings of Billy Joel, Vinh is the largest city in the Nghe An province, the birthplace of Ho Chi Minh. It was a great trip and in accordance with ELI policies, I kept close tabs on Anne and Sandy, the two teachers down there. For the first night, it was honestly a little strange watching them while they soundly slept in bed, but by the second and third night, it seemed pretty natural.

Anyways, for one brief morning, we were able to venture out to Cua Lo, a beach roughly 20 kilometers (okay and just because I’m using the metric system doesn’t mean I’m a terrorist) from Vinh proper. I was able to ride back from this aquatic frolic (can I say that?) with Sandy. She drove me on her motorbike. I was like Tim Allen, Martin Lawrence, William H. Macy, and John Travolta all rolled into one, and she was like their friend. However, during this Eric Estrada-esque adventure, the back tire of the bike sprung two leaks on two different occasions, both of which completely deflated the intertube. With no allen-crescent on hand, I thought we were sunk in a sea of gravelly pavement, but I soon found that in this country, most roads are stocked quite comfortably with workers who are ready to fix your hog at a moment’s notice. The first flat was serviced by a man who ran some type of concession bar at a hospital parking lot and the second by a younger guy who staffed a sugarcane juice stand. In the end, Sandy decided to simply buy a new intertube from the second vender, rather than attempt a second plugging.

As we pulled away from the makeshift service stand, Sandy, in light of the recently suffered circumstances, expressed her frustration with some problems her bike had brought her over the last year and then concluded with compounding cadence that, “There is no such thing as a tune up in Vietnam.”

I thought about this quote for a moment and decided that it was quite an accurate commentary in terms of explaining some things I had observed over the past few months. In this country, it seems that things are in one of two conditions, either they are working or broken, and as a long as whatever you have falls into the former category, then all is well. For example, often when I cycle around the city, I notice bicycles with rusty chains and frames that look as if they won’t make it another block, bikes that I would be weary of even running the smallest errand with. However, as long as they are running and continue to have this capability, then there are no problems. The bike will break down when it breaks down and that is that. In the meantime, use it as it should be used.

This mentality seems to apply to many occurrences I’ve seen here and fits quite well into the laid back and “take it as it comes” philosophy that the culture here functions within. I’d like to write more about that sometime soon as well, because to this high strung American, although sometimes frustrating, it has been a nice breath of fresh air.

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A few weekends ago, Melia and I were able to go with some of our students at the institute to an orphanage just outside of Hanoi. It was really great seeing them in this setting because it really brought out the best in them. They were giving themselves to others in a way that I would never have seen in the classroom or chatting over tea. Here are some pictures of that refreshing day….


Some of My first year students and some children from the orphanage.


Class K2C.


Melia and Thuan, a girl from the orphanage.

Here's to Mr. Iococa and His Failed Experiment the DeLorean

You never know when or in what form you may get a glimpse of American culture. Yesterday, in one of my speaking classes, the students were working in groups, discussing the possible changes and advances that may take place in the world by the year 2045. (The date the textbook set was 2025, but it’s about 20 years old. Let’s just say that the cover of this text has the silhouette of a man with one of the most unbridled and majestic moustaches you will ever see the outline of and that the picture that accompanies this activity was chocked full of flying cars.) Along with articulating these speculations, they were also given the task of making the following judgment: is this a change for the better, for the worse, or neither and why?

One group suggested that time travel would, by this time, be a reality. When asked if this development would be a positive influence on society, one student said no. His reason was that this would allow people to go back in time and gamble unfairly on past sporting events. I asked him if he got this concept from a certain move sequel and he said yes. I have never been prouder.

When all is said and done, I have to agree with him. Sorry Biff, but due to people like you, the Flux Capacitor is just a little too risky. Take it from me, because thanks to about a dozen time zones, I’m actually writing this from the future.

Culture Club part 1 (but not the Boy George kind…for the most part)

When making that sometimes painful transition from fanny pack toting tourist to actual resident, there are a few things you can do to cope with the cultural stress. One option is to remember that you are not alone in this process and that others all around the globe are awkwardly fumbling into strange new lifestyles. For example, Michael Jackson made the leap from the magical world that is the Never Land Ranch to the Middle Eastern country of Bahrain, and judging by his recent lack of publicity, I have to imagine that things are going pretty well for the King of Pop. Sure you can make excuses as to the cause of his successful adaptation. You can speculate that Bahrain is a country lined with zoos and glove shops from coast to coast and that architects there never really warmed up to the prospect of a second story balcony, but in the end, you have to give Michael the nod and face the music (especially the song Billy Jean because the video had light-up sidewalks).

The other option is to take note of those things which seem a bit frustrating when set against your own arbitrary biases that America has endowed you with, intentionally choose to look past these things, and ultimately chalk them up to that neutral entity known as culture. Plus this isn’t really a subject you can tackle egocentrically because, as Newton taught us, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. If I’m frustrated, chances are, the person across the table is experiencing that same negative affect and thankfully, the Vietnamese are an incredibly gracious people, always willing to give me some operational slack, a mentality that deserves emulation. Besides in the end, not to underestimate that force that culture brings to any situation, people are people and we’re all doing the best we can the best we know how.

However, sometimes I fall short of this standard and take advantage of what I like to call the Zach Morris Effect. Go back with me, if you will, to a high time of ripped jeans, neon colors, and hair parted down the middle, the era that launched the just post-pubescent phenomenon known as Saved by the Bell. The lead character was a charismatic heartthrob named Zach Morris who had the ability, with a snap of his finger, to pause time at any moment as a means of narrating his current dilemma and aiding those viewers who had perhaps missed certain key points amidst the intricate plot twists. In his case, all of the characters were frozen in times, and often, just to stick it to his jocky counterpart, he would undue a button or two on Slater’s silk shirt. Yes, Zach could be absolutely vicious.

In Vietnam this finger snap manifests itself in the following way. My students here in Hanoi have quite an impressive English proficiency and many Hanoians know at least a little English and then again, many residents have little to no working knowledge of this ridiculously confusing language. When communicating with these two latter groups there is a mutual ability for each side to speak freely and fastly in their own native language without any fear of their international counterparts comprehending what was spoken (I mean I’m learning Vietnamese, but it’s a tough process, and at this point, unless we’re dealing with numbers or salutational inquiries, people really have to slow down for me to get even an inkling of meaning). As such, I’m able to offer narration on any situation as if the person I’m commenting on isn’t even there, which can be a really dangerous privilege because often these comments are the sarcastic products of cultural frustration.

For example, last night five of us went out for dinner and while we we’re ordering, four different employees were huddling around our table in an uncomfortably close sort of way. One man kept pointing to the menu and speaking to Melia (our American Korean teammate who often gets pegged by the nationals as Vietnamese) and when somebody asked what I thought he was saying, I responded with, “Well judging by his outfit, I can only imagine that he’s describing 19 different ways to say denim in Vietnamese.” It was a spiteful comment and not what an ambassador of any sort should be saying, but it’s a coping mechanism I often fall into. I myself though take no personal responsibility for such episodes and blame it all on Mark-Paul Gosselaar. Okay not really, but seriously, it’s an area I need help with.

.........On another note, here's a link to view some pictures of the team. They were taken by one of our two team leaders so they're mainly just pics of the team hanging out and not us with our students (the latter being something I need to put more of on here because that is really my lifeblood here).

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=8978&l=cd31e&id=612313582

Eleanor Rigby vs Penny Lane

Here are some pictures from the last two months: two of the average Hanoi landscape, two of my students, and one of our team in China at the Great Wall. Let me know if there are specific kinds of things you want to see pictures of on here. Gregg, I know you're looking for shots of the architecture and I will soon deliver.







A lot has happened since the last post.

When we first arrived in Hanoi, the institute put us up in a hotel. However, about a week and a half ago we moved into the school's guesthouse. It's right next to do the school, and, in turn, demands only a short walk to class that affords certain privileges a ten minute bicycle ride cannot. Case in point, I’m now able to bring a hot cup of coffee to my 7am classes on Mondays and Tuesdays, a cargo I was never brave enough to carry on my sweet three speed ride. True, I do wear a helmet on my bike, but that’s only so much protection. For example, that kind of bravado could have scalded my teaching arm. Such an injury might have taken off some arm hair, which would probably be a good thing in a country where body hair is about as common as a reference to Andrew Dice Clay, but it’s still not worth it. Besides, if it didn’t make Robin Williams self-conscious to be here, then what do I have to worry about.

In this guesthouse, I share a room with Scott, a good friend whom I met in Nam during my summer teaching stint in ’06. It’s modest and adequate and comfortable. In many ways it’s like living in the dorms again, which I really like. We have an adjoining bathroom that, when we first moved in, had a pretty bad leak (actually leak is too weak of a word, it was really more of a spurt shooting out of the wall). On top of that, the tank on the toilet was broke and couldn’t fill up, rendering that cathartic act of flushing impossible. However, Scott, with the amazing ingenuity of that basketball coach who finally put Air Bud in the game, took the two problems and cancelled them out. He used a bucket to catch the spurt and then emptied the contents into the tank. I was honestly impressed. He found that creative third way.

This new location is also great for relationships. You can never underestimate the power of proximity. I see my students all the time now as I’m out and about living in Hanoi. Last Saturday I simply walked outside my place and met a group of students for lunch. We had a really good time. Most of them are from provinces outside of Hanoi so they actually live in the next building over. It’s referred to as the student hostel. The main course was a soup called Lau, a meal with quite the selection of ingredients. I asked them specifically about one strange looking piece of meat that they had deposited in my bowl. It was beige colored, cut into a wide but then strips, and covered with small spiky bumps. Stupidly, I asked them what it was before I ate it. They said it came from the cow’s stomach. Without asking any further questions, I wrapped it in veggies, counted to three, took a few cautionary bites, and swallowed hard. A few days later I found out that it’s called tripe and it’s the lining of a cow’s udders. That’s right, they’re not just for milk anymore.

That's about all for now, but I'll write more soon. Also, those on my newsletter list....I'll be sending in my first edition to ELI headquarters this week so hopefully it will arrive at your door about two weeks after that. I apologize for not sending one out sooner. There are some things in it that I can't wait to share with you.

Take care and keep in touch.