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!)

My Last 24 Hours

Here they are. My last 24 hours in the United States.

I woke up at about 8 o'clock this morning. I drove to town, got some money out of the bank, signed up for Frequent Flyer miles. My bags are packed: one checked bag full of clothes; one carry-on with my laptop, a neck pillow, and some books; and another carry-on full of really important things I don't want the airline to lose. There isn't much left to do. I took some pictures of Askov and of my house to show the kids at the American International School.

The question most people seem to want to know is: how do I feel? I don't know. I don't really feel much of anything actually. What am I supposed to feel like, a day before leaving? Probably very excited and anxious. Instead, I kind of feel like taking a nap.

I'm worried that my brain is somehow tricking me. To be this calm does not seem normal. Is this some sort of defense mechanism I've developed? I try to imagine what it will be like living in Vietnam for four months, but I can't seem to conjure up much beyond the pictures I've seen of Saigon traffic. It's just not something I can comprehend.

Hmmm. I forgot to mention. I spent all of yesterday looking for one of the textbooks I had purchased online. My only memory of it was that it had come in the mail, and that I had brought it to my room. I searched our house vigorously. I accused my brother of stealing it. I continued to search: my bedroom, the living room, the dining room, the bathroom. I accused a different family member; they denied ever having seen the book. Still I searched. After having accused every member of my family at least once, I gave up, and went to bed. In the morning I found it, lying on my bedroom floor. My brother had found it in his closet under a pile of clothes.

There was going to be a moral to this story, but I seem to have misplaced it.

Oh yes, one more thing. In the process of trying to sign up for United Airlines' frequent flyer plan, I came across this website: http://www.untied.com/

I now feel incredibly confident about flying halfway across the world.

Fun with postage!

Okay, I tried this story on a few people, and it fell sort of flat. It's a very difficult story to tell; I think it might be one of those "you had to be there" things. It could also, quite possibly, end up being even less funny in written form. But I will post it anyway because this is my blog.

So, a quick informational rundown. From what I can gather, a passport is what the government gives you as permission to leave the country. A visa is basically a stamp you get—in your passport—from the country you are traveling to, as permission to enter. But it's not like you can get your passport stamped upon arrival. You have to send your passport to the embassy in Washington D.C. several weeks in advance, have them process your application, and send back your stamped passport before you get on the plane—otherwise you can't get into whatever country you're attempting to enter.

I received my passport in the mail maybe two weeks ago. It came about six weeks after sending in my application, which was rather later than I had expected. The realization hit me that I was departing in about four weeks' time. That was bad. If it took the U.S. government six weeks to process a passport, how long would it take the Vietnamese embassy to process a visa?

I quickly assembled my application materials: the application itself, my passport, a $200 cashier's check, and . . . I apparently needed to send a prepaid envelope, or else they could not return my stamped passport to me. Prepaid envelope, eh? I thought to myself. That sounds simple enough.

I went to the post office, where I was told I could save a lot of money on the two envelopes (one to mail all the stuff to the embassy, the other for the embassy to mail the visa/passport back) by purchasing the postage online. Purchasing postage online, eh? I thought to myself. That sounds simple enough.

I go to purchase my postage online. It seems to be going smoothly. I purchase one label—the label for my application envelope. This is easy. All I need to do is enter the address, return address, send date, and it's done. I move on to the next label. This one also asks me for a date. What date could this one be referring to? I wonder. The send date, it insists. Gee, I think to myself, I don't know when this envelope will be sent. I have no idea how long it will take the embassy to process my application. However am I supposed to put a send date on it? Furthermore, the site insists on giving me a very small window of send dates to choose from—the farthest away, in fact, being only four days in the future. This is bad, I think. There is no way the embassy is going to receive my visa and process it within four days. But I need to get my application in the mail as soon as possible, or I might not get my visa back in time. The post office is closing for the weekend in twenty minutes. I select the farthest date, print the postage, and go to the post office.

Turns out I didn't have the post office hours right. They were already closed. This is really bad, because now not only is one send date wrong, the send date on the envelope containing the other envelope along with all of my application materials is also wrong, because it won't get mailed until next week. I slip it in the mailbox and return home, thoroughly conquered by the postal service.

I get an email the next day, telling me my package has arrived in Washington D.C. This comes as something of a surprise. I realize, suddenly, that just because the post office is closed does not necessarily mean the delivery service has already come through to pick up mail. So I had had one stroke of luck, and it made me feel a bit better. But I was still very worried about the send date on my return envelope. My dad, in an effort to cheer me up, joked that they might look at the date on the envelope, freak out, and rush to process the visa so they can send it on time. I laughed at this, but remained anxious.

My visa came in the mail two days later. I'm pretty sure what my dad said had happened exactly.

Yeah, you really had to be there.

Hi, everyone

Hi. This is my blog about living in Vietnam, as you might have gathered. In it I will be writing about pretty much any experience I have over there that I think is worth writing about. Since I'll be traveling alone to a foreign country with almost no knowledge of the language and living there for four months while attempting to teach, I'm guessing I'll have a few of those. Experiences worth writing about, I mean.

I actually have a few goals for this blog, which is a few more goals than I usually have for anything. First of all, I'm required by the course to keep a journal of experiences, so the blog will hopefully fulfill that requirement, thus enabling me to pass the course. Secondly, I want to keep everyone up-to-date on what I'm doing, and this seems a much simpler way to keep people informed than sending out emails every week or posting Facebook notes. Of course, in order for this to work, people need to know the blog exists. I'll try to advertise at every opportunity, but I'm still going to need help spreading the word.

My third goal for the blog is to keep in touch with people and answer any questions they might have, so please, post as many comments as you'd like. Maybe we can even get a few conversations going. Finally, I'll probably use the blog as something of a photo depository, so don't be surprised if many of the entries are nothing but pictures (I'll try to provide captions, to give you an idea of the context).

Oh yeah, and my last goal: to make you all feel like you're going on this trip with me. My greatest hope is that people will read this blog because it's actually interesting, so I'll certainly try to make it so. If the blog is half as exciting as the actual experiences will be, I think I'll have been successful.

Two weeks to departure!