I’ve been burning the midnight oil with Tom as he gears up for the start of football season. I stay up into the wee hours with him and sometimes continue working after he passes out with the kids. What have I been working on so relentlessly? A solid month and a half of travel. In the last two weeks I’ve booked 11 hotel accommodations, 6 plane flights, 4 bus rides, 2 round-trip train tickets and 2 tours. For five weeks we’ll be vacationing in 6 countries and visiting Phan Thiet, Siem Reap, Kuala Lumpur, Penang, Singapore, Bangkok, Chiang Mai, Tokyo, and Kyoto. My conclusion? Vacation planning is harder than running a fantasy football website.
To mix things up, we decided to rent a cheap room in a clean one-star hotel located in the heart of Saigon’s touristy backpacker district for a few days. Our first evening out with the kids, we passed by an eatery showcasing pictures of pasta and burgers. The girl specifically requested a cheeseburger for dinner and we happily complied. My mouth watered at the thought of a bacon cheeseburger with fries and a Coke. We ordered 4 burgers and they looked pretty decent when they arrived.
Major letdown. VN people really do not know how to make burgers and fries. Totally under-seasoned and the hamburger patty was disproportionately tiny in relation to the bun. And why don’t VN restaurants salt french fries?!?!
After a disappointing meal we continued down the street and, less than a block away from where we had just been eating, came across a burger bar called “Burger Crazy” which was serving a swarm of Westerners. A good classic American meal is just not in the cards for me.
I’ve been taking the kids to various parks to get them out of the apartment and to occupy our days in Saigon while Tom works away in Long Khanh. On Sunday Tom joined us in Saigon and we took them to the local amusement park, Dam Sen. Like other VN recreational facilities for children, Dam Sen is creepy. Almost every time we take the kids somewhere in VN geared towards them, the garish colors, tacky designs, and freakish characters make me appreciate places like Disneyland and how beautifully they create kid-friendly environments. Not so much at Dam Sen. As soon as we entered the park, a person dressed in a weird bee costume posed impassively as kids and adults approached and took pictures. It was neither cute nor whimsical, only bizarre.
The good thing about Dam Sen is that even on a busy Saturday, lines and wait times for rides were nowhere near as long as they are at Disneyland. Tom attributed this to the fact that VN people are highly susceptible to motion sickness and therefore too chicken to go on any rides other than non-threatening kiddie ones. I’ve always prided myself on being a bit of a thrill seeker and speed demon, so I readily agreed to accompany a younger cousin on the scariest ride at the park, a giant vessel that swung back and forth until it gained enough velocity to flip entirely upside down in a full circle. I’ve seen versions of this ride countless times although I couldn’t remember the last time I ever participated. As we were waiting in line, I couldn’t help but take note of the grimy condition of the equipment and wonder when the ride was last inspected and if it had ever received maintenance service. With my luck it was sure to malfunction while I was on it. Fortunately, it didn’t malfunction but it taught me a valuable lesson: I am no spring chicken and my days of voluntarily subjecting myself to getting jerked around at breakneck speeds are behind me. The ride was fun for about ten seconds but my initial reaction of “WHEE! I’m still youthful and spontaneous!” quickly morphed into “okay, this is getting to be less fun” and then into “this is not so fun anymore” into “OMG is this ride going to last forever???” into “I think I’m going to be sick” into “I’M GOING TO DIE!!! GET ME OFF THIS FUCKING RIDE BEFORE I SPEW!!!!” I swear that ride felt like it lasted for hours. When I finally disembarked, wobbly and nauseous, I pretended to be fine because I wanted to demonstrate to my relatives that American women are strong, adventurous, and superior to wimpy VN women. In reality it took me a good half hour to recover but I really haven’t been the same since. I think from now on we’ll be sticking to slides and swings at the local park playground.
I got one of my cousins to take me to her favorite local spa in Saigon to see if it would be any better than my other experience. It was a true spa facility in that it was dedicated to massage treatments, unlike the other facility which was primarily a hair salon. Therefore it had proper massage tables with head rests that allowed you to breath face down. Its steam room wasn’t as steamy as the other place but it at least had a faint herbal fragrance. Based on my limited experience it seems like VN spas have yet to grasp the concept of aromatherapy. They don’t understand how much scent and smell can enhance an experience. I guess no smell is better than the garbage and exhaust fumes that one typically smells. My cousin and I chose a 60 minute orange body scrub and a 60 minute full body massage. The orange scrub didn’t smell particularly orangey. It had a subtle medicinal smell that was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. I’ve never gotten a body scrub before so I don’t know what it normally entails, but I found the whole experience a little unsettling. They give you these paper-thin disposable underwear and have you climb onto a cot and lay practically naked while a therapist pours oil into every nook and cranny and works a salt scrub over your entire body. I’m not a huge fan of nakedness, especially my own, so I was self-conscious about climbing naked onto a cot next to my naked cousin and then having a therapist scrub my breasts, navel area and buttocks while other staff members drifted in and out of the room. It might have been in my head, but I felt like my therapist spent an inordinate amount of time scrubbing my belly, of which I’m especially embarrassed. It’s never recovered from my pregnancies. I see other hot moms rocking bikinis after popping out a kid or two and I just don’t get it. My belly is a wrinkled mess, jiggling ponderously above an unsightly caesarean scar. My bikini days expired long ago with my twenties. I imagined that the therapist was morbidly fascinated with my stomach, manipulating the loose skin with her fingers, rubbing circles in the soft folds of flesh and thinking to herself, “Oh my God, is this going to happen to me?” I wanted to tell her, “Let’s move on, shall we? Nothing to see here!” The sensation of someone who’s not my husband rubbing my breasts and inner thighs, dangerously close to my crotch, was uncomfortable, to say the least. For the massage portion, a girl who looked to be about half my age climbed onto the massage table with me and worked my back, stepping on parts of my body. You know you’re old when you start using phrases like “half my age.”
The massage itself was probably comparable to my last one, but since the facilities were better this time around I had a better experience overall. Better, but not perfect. The bathrooms and showers were dirty with residue from prior treatments. When a 2 hour spa treatment costs US$10, I guess you can’t ask for much more.
I just can’t help myself. I want it so bad. I stooped to taking the kids to a Pizza Hut in Saigon. Pizza Hut. I don’t think they’d ever been to Pizza Hut in their entire lives. But I was walking down a high traffic street with a kid in each hand, trying to navigate an inconsistent and sometimes non-existent sidewalk, sharing the road with passing vehicles, dodging puddles and other pedestrians, maneuvering around parked motorcycles and business store fronts, all while looking for a place to eat lunch. We had just come from a park playground and the kids were hot and sweaty, as was I. I needed to find an air-conditioned facility that sold food, and I needed to find it fast. The boy had already started whining about having to walk too far even though we’d only been walking for about 30 seconds. Our options were extremely limited. I saw a KFC on the next block but decided to press on. Then I saw a Pizza Hut across the street. It beckoned to me, with the promise of air conditioning, clean tables, ice cold beverages, slices of greasy, cheesy, doughy goodness, a slice of America. The kids assented and in no time we were behind the glass doors ordering a medium pepperoni, sausage, onion and bell pepper supreme with two sodas. It was terrible. The crust was soggy, the pepperoni dry and burnt, and the ground meat tasted rotten. And it was tiny. Ordinarily that might have been a problem but two small slices per person of this awful stuff was plenty enough. Never again. From now on I’m holding out for Grimaldi’s. The kids, having unrefined and undiscerning palates, didn’t mind the pizza at all and wolfed down their slices.
I took the kids to eat pho for lunch. We were sitting at one of those casual outdoor eateries that are so common in VN, on a side street about half a block down from the main thoroughfare where my aunt’s apartment building is located. As I was spooning noodles and broth into the kids, I looked up and saw something moving on the ground several yards from us. It was a man lying on his side at the corner of the intersection, dragging himself across the street to the next corner. He was propped up on his right elbow, which was cushioned by some sort of thinly padded shield, and his shriveled, limp legs dragged uselessly behind him. It must have taken him a full five minutes to cross the street, all the while lying almost completely prone on a high traffic street, with motorcycles, cars, and trucks whizzing by or turning the corner barely inches away from his head or his feet. I was horrified. My first thought was, Oh my God, it’s so hot! It was a little after noon, the hottest part of the day, and we were baking under the shade of an awning. Whenever we had to walk anywhere, we would race as quickly as possible to our destination because anything more than a few minutes of exposure to heavy pollution and direct sunlight was unbearable. This man’s entire body was laying on hot black asphalt, the merciless midday sun beating down on him as he inhaled exhaust fumes from passing vehicles. I can barely tolerate breathing exhaust fumes while walking around, but this man’s head was only a few inches from the ground, putting his face directly in the path of countless exhaust pipes. It was a miracle that he wasn’t run over or mutilated even though he was literally lying on the side of a busy street with vehicles moving dangerously close to him. What was more astonishing was the fact that, although drivers must have been taking care to avoid hitting him, no one seemed to notice him. I felt like I was the only one staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed. To everyone else, he was ordinary. He didn’t garner any lingering looks, any double takes. Motorcyclists who were turning at the intersection he was trying to cross came so close to him that they could have touched him with their feet, yet none of them gave him a second glance. He was utterly mundane.
I didn’t get a good look at his face because he was laying with his back toward us, but I could see that he wasn’t an old man. He might have been my age, perhaps younger. His feet were bare. He was wearing what once, long ago, might have been a nice pair of dark slacks and a white button down shirt, but which were so old and tattered that they were little more than rags. Maybe a decade or two ago, in much better circumstances, his outfit would have been presentable in a business casual office. The idea that at some point he had wanted and tried to be dignified, to look respectable, struck me as tragic. The sight of him was so shocking that I stared at him the entire time he was dragging his body across the street, unable to tear my eyes away. Eventually the kids noticed him too, and the girl pointed and asked, “What is that?” I could see her trying to process what she was seeing and her confusion over why anyone would be doing what he was doing. The boy looked at him and then looked at me, his baby eyebrows furrowed in genuine concern, and asked, “Momma, why isn’t anyone helping him?”
It was such a simple and forthright and obvious question coming from an innocent three-year-old, and it broke my heart. The girl chimed in as well so that both children were inquiring again and again, “Why isn’t anyone helping him?” I had no response for them other than to repeat, “I don’t know, I don’t know.” At one point a motorcyclist pulled over and bent down to him and relief flooded through me. Finally, I thought, someone’s here to get him. I wondered if it was a family member, maybe a brother or a cousin, and briefly resented this person. What kind of person leaves a crippled relative lying in the street to drag himself around? Why wasn’t this poor man’s family taking better care of him? Then I noticed the crippled man and the motorcyclist exchanging what looked like money or pieces of paper. Maybe the motorcyclist wasn’t a relative after all, maybe he was one of those motorcycle taxi drivers (xe om) that a lone passenger can rent instead of a taxicab. Maybe he took pity on the crippled man and pulled over to give him a ride, or maybe they had an understanding and the crippled man was a regular customer. But then the motorcyclist climbed back on his motorcycle and rode off. What was that about? It happened twice more while I watched, and I realized that the motorcyclists were pulling over to buy lottery tickets from the crippled man, who dispensed them from a black cloth satchel slung over his shoulder. Street beggars rarely beg for money outright anymore; they sell lottery tickets instead. I don’t remember lottery tickets being so ubiquitous the first time we came to VN almost 14 years ago, but now they’re offered to us every time we sit down at an eatery, sometimes multiple times over the course of a meal. We automatically shake our heads at solicitors offering lottery tickets, always avoiding eye contact with them, and turn them away so often that we’ve become indifferent to all beggars and solicitors, if for no reason other than not wanting to trouble ourselves with pulling out our money all the time. Although initially it struck me as callous of the motorcyclists to leave a crippled man lying prostrate in the street after they had purchased their lotto tickets, I realized they were at least helping him. I don’t know why I had expected/hoped that they would pick him up and carry him away. They were doing more than other motorists who sped by without glancing at him, and they were doing more for him than I was.
I felt miserable. I wanted to run over to the man and give him all the cash I was carrying. I wanted to hail a taxi and help him into it so he could get out of the glaring sun. I wanted to put him up in some sort of a hostel or inn and tell him he didn’t need to drag himself around on the street anymore, beg him not to do it because I couldn’t bear to see it. There were so many things I wanted to do and felt like I should do, and yet a part of me knew that I wasn’t going to do any of them. I could say that I didn’t want to leave my kids at an outdoor pho shop while I ran down the block to execute good samaritan deeds, but the real reason was that I didn’t want to see this man up close. As riveted as I was watching him from afar, it pained me. I didn’t want to see him at all, let alone approach him and talk to him. I didn’t want him to exist, because his very existence was forcing me to acknowledge that he was real, his suffering was real, his poverty was real, and there were other people in the world like him. Even though there are homeless people in the U.S. who are disabled, the sight of this man would be shocking to Americans. This level of destitution would be hard for most Americans to imagine. If I had had my phone with me, I would have taken a picture of him, as exploitative as that sounds. There’s American poverty, and then there’s Vietnamese poverty, which is in a class of its own. I don’t like to think that this man and people like him are part of a legacy that my children will inherit. We live in an age in which things like wifi are possible, why can’t we as a society figure out how to eradicate this level of human suffering? Why not eliminate unnecessary animal suffering while we’re at it? How can I live with myself knowing that this man is out there, living the life he’s living, while I go on feeding pho to my kids and planning vacations at four star resorts? How on earth could I possibly care about things like plush bath towels and artisan cheese? These are all rhetorical questions because I know I have the capacity to get over it and continue living my life as I always have. As distraught as I was, the memory of him will fade; the sensation of shocked horror has already begun to wane.
I often feel guilty when reflecting on my good fortune and blessed life. Encountering the less fortunate evokes mixed feelings and reactions, not all of which I’m proud of. Watching this man drag his body across the street made me think of things like “quality of life” and “euthanasia.” What kind of awful person am I to think that his life wasn’t worth living, when he apparently thought it was? I didn’t want him to exist. Why? Because of pity, and empathy for his suffering? Or because the sight of him was so distressing? I was grateful when a massive truck rounded the corner and parked, finally blocking him from my view.
I tend to lump my reactions into three categories: #1) wanting to dedicate my life to charitable and philanthropic causes and leave my children a world that’s in better condition than when I entered it, #2) throwing my hands up in despair at the enormity of the world’s problems and the impossibility of solving them, and being depressed about the unfairness of life, and #3) turning a blind eye to the plight of others and enjoying my life as much as possible while trying not to make things worse, but not making an effort to make things better. I alternate among these reactions all the time. Committing myself solely to one category seems extreme and unworkable, but does dabbling in category #1 exonerate me for devoting most of my time to category #3? Wallowing in category #2 doesn’t do anyone any good but I still waste energy there. Category #1 is the noblest option and seems like the obvious choice, but for me, categories #1 and #2 go hand in hand. Doing pro bono work for underprivileged children has afforded me some of the most rewarding experiences of my life, but at times has also led to soul-crushing disillusionment and hopelessness. The forces of history, poverty, demographics, socioeconomic factors, culture, class, among so many others, seem too powerful to overcome. Struggling against them feels futile, a proverbial drop in a gargantuan bucket of fucked-upness. So if you know you can’t “fix” a systemic problem, should you give up and not try? I’ve posed this question to myself and others from time to time. I think I came to the conclusion that incremental improvements are better than none at all.
When I saw the crippled man, I thought to myself that the money in my wallet could improve his life for several weeks, maybe months. If I withdrew money from an ATM I could change his life for a year. But then what? After my money ran out, what would become of him? Nothing would change in the long-term, would it? He would still be selling lottery tickets while dragging his body on the ground. What was the point of trying to help him? The point was that I could have eased his suffering for a week, a month, perhaps more. But I didn’t. I didn’t do anything.
We decided to head into Saigon after almost a week back at my uncle’s mansion in Long Khanh. My uncle’s household is always bummed when my kids leave. Everyone says the mansion feels empty and lonely without them. My kids are the popular kids. They’re favorites among the younger cousins, even though they seem to prefer playing with each other over playing with their cousins. They’re beloved by and sought out by their playmates, even when they don’t reciprocate those feelings. They definitely have their annoying moments, but on the whole they’re better behaved than their VN cousins. They don’t scream and shriek the way one cousin does, nor do they bully others the way another cousin does, nor are they disrespectful like a couple of their cousins. They’re so beloved because they’re sweet, lovable children. Obviously my judgment is suspect, but when I observe my kids interacting with others, I’m usually filled with pride and only occasionally disappointed or ashamed. They’re kinder, more courteous, and less selfish than their peers. They don’t hit (at least, that’s not how they automatically react). They come when they’re called. They *generally* do as they’re told (which sometimes requires coercive persuasion). They pick up after themselves (with reminders and guidance). They’re smart, incredibly verbal, fun-loving, and almost always in a good mood. Sometimes too good — their constant giggling and horseplay can grate on your nerves when you just want some peace and quiet. But that’s a minor complaint considering how well-mannered they are at ages 3 and 4. They’re not perfect by any means; sometimes I worry that we’re conditioning them to be too submissive and they won’t be able to stand up for themselves or resolve conflicts without running to us and whining about every grievance. They tend to whine a lot. But more than once I’ve felt justified in whispering to their father, “Our kids are better than everyone else’s.”
I tend to whine about taking care of them, but I wouldn’t want anyone else doing it. Childcare isn’t exactly intellectually stimulating (sometimes it’s just plain boring), but its rewards are so much richer, so much more worthwhile than drafting a contract. Spending so much uninterrupted time with them, including our forced co-sleeping arrangement, has bonded me to my children more deeply and powerfully than I can describe. I will never regret this time with them; I’m lucky to have it. For the rest of our lives my daughter and I will be able to tell people that I taught her how to read when she was four years old. It’s such a special experience and I’m so proud of her and so proud to be a part of it. My son is not quite as teachable. He’s very emotional; quick to anger but also quick to forgive and forget. Even while he’s being disciplined, all he wants to do to is kiss and hug and make up. He can’t stand feeling unloved. It’s exhausting and endearing how much my kids crave my love and attention. They love me so unconditionally and they are so precious to me that sometimes I feel like my heart cannot contain my love for them; it’s fit to burst.
Tom and I joke about being terrible parents but the truth is we must be doing something right. I have faith and every reason to believe that my children will grow into kind, loving, and good people, because that’s who they are now. If I can just keep them that way and not mess them up too much then I’ve accomplished something meaningful with my life.
On a whim we asked a cousin to drive us to a liquor store so we could buy a bottle of red wine. VN people aren’t big wine drinkers and the beer selection is paltry. There’s only a handful of beers to choose from and Heineken is considered the best, so that tells you everything you need to know. We bought a cheap Malbec because we didn’t want to splurge on an expensive bottle when transportation and temperature control are highly unreliable in VN. While looking around I happened to spy a single solitary bottle of Veuve Clicquot — for US$12. It was so unbelievably cheap I had to grab it. I was overjoyed, until Tom convinced me that it was a fake. Counterfeits are a huge problem here, popping up everywhere among designer goods, medication, cosmetics, liquor, you name it.
I’ve been dying for some champagne-worthy occasion or snacks but those are surprisingly rare in VN. We have access to a billion different types of fish to eat with rice but tortilla chips are nowhere to be found, so chips and salsa will have to remain a distant memory. Charcuterie and artisan cheeses are out of the question. A quest for cheese will get you wedges of super-processed Laughing Cow. Out of desperation, we opted for roast pork sandwiches and random snack chips — which come in flavors like “roasted squid” — from the local convenience store. Not ideal, but they were being paired with a $12 bottle of champagne, so what’s the harm?
Maybe it’s been too long since I’ve had champagne but I thought the Veuve Clicquot tasted authentic. It brought me to my happy place so it was real enough for me. Now we just have to figure out what to eat with our Malbec. Our daily fare of fish stewed in fish sauce probably isn’t going to work.