Guess where I am?

(I wrote this last night, but did not get internet access until this morning, so I'm posting it now. That gives it a little more context.)


Wow.

Wow wow wow wow wow.

Wow.




Sorry about that. It's just that I’m pretty sure I’ve just had the most thrilling half-hour of my entire life. Saigon is overwhelming. Indescribable. And all I did was drive through it! (Actually, someone else drove me through it; if I had done the driving, I would not be alive now to write this.) But let’s slow down, back up, and start with the boring stuff.

Today was a day of learning hard universal truths. The first of these truths was that nowhere, not even the San Francisco airport, is an enjoyable place to wait four hours. It’s kind of like sitting on a plane for four hours (which I did to get to San Francisco), without the satisfaction of knowing you will end up somewhere different from where you started. And no on serves you free food. I tried in vain to sleep, but sleeping is very tricky when you are traveling outside the country for the first time in your life.


This is the most interesting thing in the San Francisco airport.

All in all, San Francisco was probably the least interesting leg of the journey. It was not, however, the least enjoyable. That honor goes easily to the trip from San Francisco to Hong Kong. You see, the second universal truth I learned today is that 12 hours is a really long time. No, I’m serious. It’s really, really, really long. I decided to do some scientific inquiry: using my astounding math skills, I calculated that 12 = 4 x 3. This means the flight to Hong Kong was 3 times longer than the flight to San Francisco. Math lies.

Imagine being on a plane for a million years. You can’t. That’s why it’s worse to be on a plane 12 hours. Being on a plane for a million years is an idea incomprehensible to human beings; being on a plane 12 hours is very comprehensible. In fact, it is so comprehensible that after you’ve been on the plane for six hours, your legs aching and a dull throbbing in your toes, you can quite easily comprehend having to sit through another six hours. Life becomes a waking nightmare, with sleep the only escape. But sleep comes rarely, and when it does, it is too short. You fall in and out, again and again and again, waiting for some sign, some confirmation that time is indeed passing, but the only sign the flight crew gives is the third Matthew McConaughey move in a row—oh God, no . . . .

Anyway. The flight to Hong Kong did prepare me for the transition to an unfamiliar culture. The flight crew was entirely Asian, the food they served was Asian, and indeed, the vast majority of the passengers were Asian (which is all to be expected of a flight to Hong Kong). The point is, for the first time I felt outside of American culture. I had moved into something more mysterious. Communication wasn’t easy anymore. Most people I spoke to did not understand me much, and I’m sure I understood less of them.

The wait at the Hong Kong Airport was much more reasonable, maybe an hour and a half. They did another security search of my bags, and confiscated my Stain Stick. I politely informed them that it was not a liquid, gel, or aerosol—so why was it being confiscated? This surprised them. They had thought it was a spray bottle of some kind. One of them tried to read the label on the bottle, which said “Power Stain Remover” and said, “Oh. It is powder?” (I think he misread the label.) I unscrewed the lid and showed him that it was not powder. He asked another employee about the matter, in Chinese. She laughed at something he said, and tossed my Stain Stick in the trash.

Third universal truth: Umm . . . . Well, there’s probably a truth in there somewhere.



So, onward I went to Ho Chi Minh City. This was a two hour flight. I sat next to an older couple who, I learned through a conversation involving mostly gestures, were coming back from a 3-month-long vacation in the U.S. They had seen a number of U.S. landmarks I’ve yet to see—Niagara Falls, the Grand Canyon, etc. They both seemed very friendly, and assisted me in filling out my customs form. Then the man offered me his address. I accepted. He requested mine. I was unsure of how to proceed. I knew the exchange of business cards was a common practice even among strangers in Vietnam; was this like that? At any rate, I obliged him. I still don’t know if that was the right thing to do. It’s kind of worrying me a bit.

Finally, I was in Saigon. Ho Chi Minh City. Whatever you want to call it, it’s the most amazing place I’ve ever seen in my entire life. The first thing I felt as I stepped out of the airport was the humidity. It hit me rather like a wall. Minnesota humidity had not prepared me for this. It makes the heat almost tangible; you can feel it weighing down on you.


People waiting outside the airport to greet friends, relatives, etc.

I met a member of the administrative staff outside the airport. He spoke fluent English (I later found he was born in San Francisco), and we talked as we were driven to my living quarters. I tried to talk, rather. Driving (being driven) is horrifying. It didn’t help that they were attempting to fix the sewer system in the area; half the road was tied off in places. Motorbikes were everywhere. Most carried at least two people. They zigged and zagged all over the road, moving around any slow-moving vehicle. There was no such thing as directional lanes; often we were driving straight into oncoming traffic. I recall three “lanes” of traffic trying to merge into one. We were caught in the center lane, with two rows of vehicles on either side fighting each other for space. We blared our horn like crazy. That’s another thing: in Minnesota, the car horn is a sort of last resort in difficult driving situations, and even then it is occasionally considered rude. In Vietnam, it’s used almost like Morse code to send messages to other vehicles. I tried to figure out some sort of pattern, but it was indecipherable to me. I think if the driver had gone more than a minute without honking, he would honk it again just to make sure it was still working.

All the while, we were driving past the city itself, which is so wildly different from anything I’ve ever seen, I don’t really think I can describe it. Of course, I was so dumbstuck I wasn’t even thinking to take pictures. I will have lots for you tomorrow, though.

And then we came to my house, where I am now. I unpacked first, and then began writing this, because the last thing I wanted to do was go to bed. But now it’s two o’clock in the morning, so I think I might.

Good night.

(Tons more pictures in a bit!)