Thursday, April 01, 2010 12:29 PM

Hue, Vietnam

Xin Chào!

Xin Chào means both Hello! and Goodbye! here in Việt Nam. (But, be warned that Vietnamese is another tonal language, like Thai, which means that you have to use a falling tone when you say Chào—lower your voice on the last syllable. If you mistakenly use a rising tone and say Xin Cháo, you’ll get quite a different reaction from locals since I think it means something like Bring me some rice pudding!

I have not felt very inspired to write here in Vietnam, despite the amazing time we had our first two weeks in the country with Jason’s family—brother Spencer, who we haven’t seen since he helped us consume an entire gallon of extra virgin olive oil along with countless bottles of velvety Rioja wine in southern Spain—and Jason’s father, Mike, who shared with us his incredible perspective on Vietnam, having served here during the Vietnam War (which in Vietnam, of course, is referred to as the American War). We learned and experienced so many incredible things during our two-week, whirlwind tour of northern Vietnam. But I’ll have to save those thoughts for my next letter when I hope inspiration will have returned.

I’m not sure what is wrong with me. Maybe after India nothing can feel exotic enough to be worth writing about? Or maybe it’s just too hot and sweaty to do anything but shower? Or maybe we’re just worn out and rendered insipid after spending the last four weeks living out of suitcases? Even when we moved into an actual house here in Hue a week ago and unpacked the backpacks, we pretty much melted into homebodies… sleeping late… absorbing ourselves in work and homeschooling… using the rain as an excuse to stay home and play cards or dominoes… doing our best to conjure up some good old American comfort food with the local ingredients. (By the way, Mom, do you know of any casserole recipes that call for dried shrimp heads?)

I know that we all felt our spirits sink a bit when Spencer and Mike loaded up their taxi a week ago with quite a bit more luggage than they came with, including a huge duffle bag full of our precious finds from Vietnam thus far…  a porcelain tea set and snake wine from villages on the Red River Delta… the silk lanterns we learned how to make and three-piece suits and silk gowns tailored to fit in Hoi An… rice liquor and garden seeds from bike tours through farming villages... water puppets and North Face jackets made in Hanoi…

I could have foreseen that we would all feel a bit down watching Spencer and Mike drive away, after two weeks of intense togetherness, exploration, and enough late night card games to fill a deep need. (Which, I guess you could say, Jason and I have otherwise been filling with the frantic games of charades we’ve been playing with locals for the past 18 months, desperately gesturing and pantomiming to get our point across.) Still, I’m having a hard time shaking the blues this time around. I overheard their weather reports from friends back home—mention of melting snow, anxious tulips, and tomato seedlings nurtured indoors, beginning to stretch skyward to get a peek out of frosty kitchen windows. Spring seemed to be a common theme of conversation as we scooted ever closer to the nearest fan, wiping away sweat beads with ice-cold watery lagers. Why hadn't we planned our re‑entry to the to coincide with the colorful springtime? I had to keep reminding myself why we weren’t boarding that plane along with Spencer and Mike. What was it again that is keeping us here in Vietnam?

I have a love-hate relationship with the frantic initial weeks we spend site-hopping in each country before settling down. It’s an exciting time, on one hand—a crash course in the new language and culture when some new and astounding scene awaits us around each new rice paddy. But on the other hand, by the end of it I am generally so ready to jump ship from the stagnant river of white folks that streams from one essential landmark to the next that I could scream. Staying at the recommended hostels... stopping at the recommended hot spots… glancing around the recommended restaurants while waiting for the recommended dishes… trying not to notice that the only locals to be found are those in a position to make a quick buck off you…

Even now as I sit here on the second story balcony of our rented home, far from the frantic flow of foreigners, I still feel quite at a distance. I’m peering down past the banana leaves and coconut palms in our front garden to the vibrant street scene below—overlooking the waves of bicycles and motorbikes that gush in both directions. I can’t shake the feeling of being a bystander, observing life in Vietnam but not actually living it. Studying the language, reading the history, visiting the sites—aren't we doing everything we can to soak up the Vietnam experience? I mean, I think we’re going through the right motions... we drag ourselves out into the mayhem each afternoon; jump into a taxi and go on a field trip for a few hours when homeschool is done… I’ve mastered using chopsticks as well as the next guy… I even bought myself a conical hat. Just as soon as I get used to wearing it, I'm going to consider sporting silk pajamas around town all day, which seems to be the norm…. Still, somehow I feel like I’m on the banks of the swimming hole, and they just won’t let me jump in.

Here’s hoping the fog will lift and the rain will stop soon.

Xin Chào!

Angela