I Am Drained

We have lived in Vietnam for three years now. We spent two years in China before that. You would think that in that amount of time, we would have things figured out. However, we still get surprised now and then.

One of the things I love “am amused by” about living on this side of the world is the lack of concern for rules or safety. If something needs to be done–just do it. My neighbor once drilled a hole in the curb in front of his house to access the drainage system under the sidewalk. His street was flooding, so he fixed it. He didn’t call the city planning commission, notify a zoning board or get any kind of permit. He just drilled a hole. In the States, my dad once got hit with a fine for tearing down an old shed on his own property.

Driving down the road, you might see a hole big enough to swallow a bus. Someone will put tape around it until the city gets around to fixing it. No signage is placed to warn of the upcoming hazard. The tape is sufficient.

In the States, we need a heads-up two miles ahead of time for a lane merge in the highway. Here, they just have the crazy expectation that drivers should be paying attention. It’s the same reason there are virtually no traffic lights anywhere despite the amount of traffic.

Power lines sag low enough you could grab them, but people don’t. And there is a reason for that. You know what they are, stay clear. If you happen to die, well…you must not have been very smart.

These lack of regulations apply to household products as well. A product I have used here many times is a drain cleaner. This is some serious stuff. If your shower stops draining, you buy a bottle of this stuff to pour in the drain. It is instantaneous. The moment you break the seal on the bottle, you can feel your lungs beginning to collapse and burn. I have a method for using this stuff.

I have learned to be standing directly over the drain, hold my breath and break the seal. Empty the contents quickly and exit the bathroom before you run out of breath. Go back in a few days to dispose of the empty bottle.

The water starts to drain almost before you even pour anything in. The fumes are that strong. The moment that stuff hits the drain, the excess water is sucked out of the house. That bottle essentially contains concentrated molten acid. I’m not even sure the water exists anymore.

So, when my kitchen sink failed to drain one day, I grabbed by lucky bottle of liquid hell and dumped it in. It took less than a second for the sink to drain and flooded my kitchen with very “bitey” dirty water. Apparently, the pipes in the kitchen are not lava-proof like the bathroom pipes are.

The inside of the pipes are now spotless

The pipe was obliterated as well as everything that was stored under the sink. All of our cleaning products leaked everywhere when the bottles they were stored in disintegrated. The brushes and scrubbing implements no longer exist and the various mops we used very carefully to clean up our acid eco-disaster had to be blessed and ritually destroyed by a priest.

Luckily, we have marble floors. It did not eat through the marble, but it did go right through the grouting between the tiles and stained every marble surface into a unrecognizable color.

I managed to get it all cleaned up and only lost two and a half toes in the process. I now wonder if the pipes under the bathroom are more sturdy or just underground so I don’t know what damage I have done. I do know there can’t possibly be any ants or rats under our house.

Christmas 2021

I feel like a Christmas bystander. I see people – on TV and in social media – decorating and shopping, and trying to “fit everything in” for their holidays, and it’s just not me anymore.

Our nativity, some lights, Christmas music or movies for entertainment, and BOOM! I’m done. Ready. No festivities with friends and family. We are bystanders.

Christ was born! Hallelujah!

When He was born, there were a lot of Christmas bystanders. Almost everyone, in fact. A few shepherds (we don’t know how many), a multitude of angels, barn animals maybe, and His mother and stepfather were the only ones who knew what to celebrate. A few Wise Men (we don’t know how many) were aware of something, but at the time of his birth they were far away and trying to figure out what that star meant.

Everyone else was a bystander. The innkeeper presumably knew that Mary was about to give birth. After all, she was “great with child”. It’s hard to hide that. The town of Bethlehem was full of people, all concerned with their own lives and families and problems. Bystanders to the greatest gift from Heaven.

“The glory of the Lord shone around them,” is what we are told in Luke. Do you think anyone in the proximity of the shepherds’ fields noticed? What does “the glory of the Lord” look like? Bright? Iridescent? Is it more like an LED or the sun? Were folks in Bethlehem complaining of light pollution as they tried to get some sleep that night?

We picture the angel flying above them, but what if it walked over to them instead? Abraham and Jacob both entertained angels in the Old Testament, but they did earthly things together. Angels can walk on the earth. What if the Christmas messenger strolled in through a gate in the fence, and came over the shepherds’ campfire, said, “Behold” and then lit up just the area around them with “the glory of the Lord”. That would be pretty terrifying, I bet.

They would’ve been bystanders if not for the angel’s appearance. Why them? What made them so special? Why not the innkeeper? If the angel visited the innkeeper, maybe he’d’ve comped Joseph the night in the barn. Was it because the shepherds’ hearts were purer? Or maybe because of the symbolism of “the Good Shepherd” that would later be woven through Jesus’ ministry on earth?

I love the story of Christmas. I love considering it from all angles. It’s probably why I’m comfortable standing by and letting the chaos of the modern “holiday season” pass me by. If I keep one tradition, I hope it’s writing these things that may, hopefully, give someone a reason to pause and consider. And if not, that’s okay too.

I do hope anyone reading this has an opportunity to take a few minutes and ponder on what and who we are celebrating. Richest blessings to you and yours!

In Memoriam

I have no idea how to memorialize my own father: I wasn’t there for almost half of his life! All I have are my own memories, so this may be lengthy and self-indulgent. You are warned. Settle in and open a beer, or have a cup of tea/coffee.

There are memories like a lot of people probably have of their own fathers: breakfast for dinner, watching football together, eating ice-cream, playing cards… Memories unique to our family: the annual reading of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, black licorice ice-cream for his birthday, black licorice… And of course, memories precious to me alone:

The main thing that comes to mind when I think of Dad is road-trips. Early morning road-trips. Once, when I was a kid in Iowa, he woke up us kids EARLY-early to hit the road in our van and head down to Iowa City, where Penny was in a hospital and Mom was staying nearby. That was the first sunrise I ever saw. Beth, Philip and I were sleeping on a mattress in the back of the van while Enoch sat co-pilot, but I woke up early enough to see the tiny crack of light on the horizon, talked to Dad for a minute or so, watched long enough to realize that the sun rises VERY slowly, and went back to sleep.

He liked hitting the road early if there were Places To Go and Things To Do.

When we lived in Sri Lanka, I would ride with him down the mountain to Colombo when time came to renew our visas. I don’t recall if it was an annual or semi-annual trip. I think Annually. Dad did it so that the whole family didn’t have to go on this excruciatingly long but necessary, annual pilgrimage. I don’t know why I decided to go the first time. Was it the solitude? (In a family of 7, solitude was rare.) A budding sense of adventure? (You never know what may happen when you leave the house.) I don’t remember the logic of my 11yo brain, but maybe I was just taking advantage of a chance to get out and do something with Dad. He’d wake me at… 4 am? (38 years ago…Details are lost in the mists of time.) We had a 4-hour drive down the mountain on narrow switchback roads where, if another vehicle was coming, one of you had to back up to the nearest wide spot. No wonder he wanted to leave early!

–

Leaving early also meant arriving early to the government offices, where we’d sit (if possible) in the un-air-conditioned waiting area. Well, I’d sit (if possible). He’d be called up to this desk or that, where we’d hear a thump-THUMP, thump-THUMP, thump-THUMP, thump-THUMP, thump-THUMP, thump-THUMP, thump-THUMP, as each of our passports or resident permits were stamped with government ink ensuring we could stay for the next year.

There would be errands, too. Certain things that were unavailable in the smaller town we lived in.

So we’d go to buy ground meat and fresh milk, filling up the large Coleman cooler in the back of the van. Often, we’d lunch with the Fibelkorns, the other family in our mission, and take a minute to relax in comfort at their house before the 4-hour return trek up the switchbacks, through the tea estates where the air was cool and comfortable, and the fog softened the world around us.

Home in time for dinner. Did Mom hold dinner late those nights? Had we always eaten after everyone else? Again, a detail lost in time.

I know we talked, but I don’t know what we talked about on those drives. I know I tried to stay awake, to be a good co-pilot, but I’m sure I dozed, especially on the early drive down.

Dad always took an interest in what I liked. (I remember one day I was playing some music when Dad came in and asked, “What’s this?” I showed him the cassette cover and pointed out “Tarzan Boy” on the play list, expecting him to hate it. He listened for a minute – did he read the lyrics? I don’t know – said, “Not bad” and left to get on with his day.)

 

Maybe we talked about music on those road-trips. More likely we talked about the villages we drove past and the things happening around us. One thing I knew for certain: We’d have ice-cream at some point on the return trip. Maybe at a hotel in Colombo, or at Elephant House, maybe at one of the rest stops farther up the road. It was “our secret”. I think. Or I thought. His love for ice-cream is legendary, so everyone probably assumed we ate ice-cream, regardless.

 

In his last years, my Dad’s health did him no favors. No surprise. He was 81. Everyone has health issues as they age. The hardest part for Dad – the hardest part to observe – was watching his mind slow down. He was an educated man. A thinker, a joker, and a man of faith. And it was clear that after three “mini” strokes he couldn’t think as fast as he wanted to. Sure, he used a walker to move around, but the slowing of his formerly quick wit was the harder thing for me.

I’m at peace with my Dad’s death. He was ready, I think. He is whole now, residing with his heavenly Father, his truest home of all the homes he’s had. His memorial service will be this Saturday (live-streamed). He’ll be remembered by many around the world for a long time.

Men Waiting for a Shave Is a Barber Queue

I hate shaving.

Hate it. Hate it. Hate it.

And I don’t know why. It’s not like it is that difficult, but I put off doing it as long as I can.

I’ve done this for many years. Once I shaved, I would not shave again until the itching on my face was driving me crazy and I just couldn’t stand it anymore. Then, I would shave. But only because I had to for my sanity.

Because I would often go two weeks (or sometimes even longer) between shaves, the crappy little disposable razors just didn’t do the trick.

I didn’t break them like Bill Duke did in Predator, but I did destroy them very quickly. When you are harboring two weeks worth of uncontrolled undergrowth on your face, that tiny little cheap blade can’t handle it. After pulling it barely a quarter-inch down your face shag, the underside is already clogged and it just slides across the top of your cheek growth.

To make any progress, I had to take tiny little swipes and thoroughly rinse after every two or three attempts. The difference on my face would be barely noticeable and it could take 20 minutes to do just one cheek. Plus, by then, the blade was shot and it was time to change razors. I would go through two to four razors every time.

Eventually, I decided to upgrade and purchased my first big boy razor.

Woohoo! Four blades.

I saw an immediate improvement. I could shave a little faster, but I still had to be careful to not shave too much before cleaning out the blades. Once the spaces between the blades get packed with stubble, they were useless. IF I took care to protect the blades, I was sometimes able to shave three separate days before I had to put a new blade cartridge in. This was a much better experience, but those cartridges were four to six dollars apiece. So, quite often, (as much as I hated it) I tried to shave more often. Twice a week seemed to greatly extend the life of my blades. But I complained loudly every time I had to do it.

Puberty still sucks even years later. I’ve seriously considered getting electrolysis on my face. Have I said I hate shaving?

One day six years ago, I saw an ad for a barbershop that does shaves. I don’t know why this had never occurred to me before. Let someone else do it! It was for Red’s Classic Barbershop in Indianapolis (where I lived at the time). Which, coincidentally, was probably why I saw the ad.

Someone else shaving me? Yes, please.

I jumped at this opportunity. I raced over and got a professional shave for the first time in my life. It was awesome, but it was not cheap. I was not going to pay for this service every couple of weeks. However, I was sold on the concept of a straight razor after this and went a little crazy. I bought a razor, shaving brush, special shaving lather gel and a few other accessories. My trip downtown to get a shave turned into a $300 expense.

You know when you go to the barbershop to get a shave and get all caught up in the hype and spend a couple hundred bucks?

I just did that.

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) May 22, 2015

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The best part was the quality and function of the blade. An unencumbered straight razor is typically pretty laid-back about how long it has been since your last shave. And with no crevices around the blade for little hairs to clog up, it shaves much faster. One long swipe down the cheek removes hair from the entire area. No more little pecks with an inferior blade for me. I was set for life.

Until I went to use it for the first time a week later.

As it turns out, the totally exposed, uber-honed blade with the sharpened end tapered down to barely the width of a single atom must be used quite delicately. And with a very steady hand.

With time, I got better. However, after several near-fatal mishaps I learned to always inform my wife I was shaving so she wouldn’t suddenly yell out “THE PIZZA’S HERE!”

Sudden and unexpected outbursts tend to make people jump. And when I am already understandably nervous about having the miniature, home-version of a samurai sword at my jugular, these outbursts would cause significantly more than a flinch from me.

So, shaving time became household quiet time. We silenced the phones, muted the TV and she would sit in a comfortable chair until I give the the all-clear. The routine worked for us for several years.

Since then, we have moved to Vietnam. The land of the discount everything.

The high prices in Indianapolis that kept me from letting someone else shave me don’t exist here. Now, I head out to a barbershop every Wednesday morning to get a shave. I will happily let someone else do it when it only costs 20,000 đồng ($0.90). But it is a bit of a different experience. Correction. A radically different experience.

Here, there is no hot towel and face cream treatment like at the fancy shop I visited in the States. It’s also not a nice retro place downtown with drinks and a waiting area. It’s a dry shave in a dimly-lit building similar to what Americans might call a ‘backyard murder-shack’.

Of the four places I frequent for my weekly treatment, two of them have dirt floors. One has no electricity. Three of them have no running water on site and none of them have a professionally-trained, certified barber. Here, if you want to open a business, you just do it. To be a barber, you need a pair of scissors and something for your customer to sit on. That’s it.

For the last few weeks, my favorite barber has had a teenage kid (he looks about 14) hanging around in his little murder-shack barber shed. Often when I am in there, the kid (the barber’s son, I assume) is sitting in the corner taking apart a set of clippers and putting it back together. He pulls out plastic chairs for waiting customers to sit in despite there being room for no more than three people in the tiny shack. He also makes sure the front door stays shut to prevent wandering water buffalo from trying to push their way in.

Last week, I figured out that the boy is apparently in training to do what his father does. Learn the trade and start cutting hair. (I have to assume everything since we speak different languages. I can’t ask any questions, so I just have to observe and guess. I’m wrong a lot.) I sat in the chair as the barber stepped outside with his previous customer to collect money and have a cigarette. Once I was seated, the boy rested my seat back and started putting the foam on my face.

My mind started racing. Did I want this child shaving me? Those straight razors are deadly. I barely trust myself with those death blades at my throat and I love me more than anyone. But the father(?) soon came back in and took over.

This week, the same thing happened. I was much more relaxed, but dad(?) did not come back in this time. The boy whipped out the blade and stated to work in front of my right ear.

I understand that an apprentice has to start doing the real thing eventually. That’s how he’s going to learn. And from a business and local-credibility standpoint, it probably makes sense to have him practice on the foreigner in case of a mishap. I just wish it wasn’t me.

The boy moved very slowly. He didn’t take any long swipes and he did the same area a few times. I assume to be sure to get all the hair. After he finished one cheek, he moved to the other. By now, dad(?) was standing over me and watching. He gave a few words now and then. After he finished my left cheek, he handed the razor over to his father (I am still not sure of their relationship). Dad ran his fingers over my cheeks and gave a nod of approval to the boy. Then, Dad went to work on the more complicated contours of my face. Under the nose. Around the lips. The curves of the jawline and chin.

It all worked out. I didn’t get a single nick.

When it was finished, the boy jumped back in with a towel to clean me up. I got up and paid the barber his 20,000 đồng and then turned back to the kid and held out another 20,000. He looked confused and shook his head while pointing to his father. I assume he was saying, “No, no. Pay him.”

I pushed the money closer to him and he looked around me to his father. Dad gave a quick nod which allowed the boy to take the money. I ran my fingers over the sides of my face and gave him a thumbs up. He now understood. I was actually paying him for his service. A huge smile broke out on his face. He jumped up and gave the polite bow that is common in this part of the world. I turned around to leave and his father was beaming. He gave me a subtle wink as I left.

I think I made that kid’s day.

When I go back next time, I think I’ll try to swallow my fear and convince Dad to let the kid do it all.

Comfort. Tradition?

I’ve been trying for days to write a Christmas letter about “Comfort”.

“Comfort my people,” said the prophet Isaiah, referring to the arrival of the Messiah.

The Hymnist takes it further… “Comfort those who sit in darkness, mourning ‘neath their sorrows’ load.” Amen!

Have you heard of Hygge? The Swedish joy in small comforts? Comfort is vital.

Comfort of tradition – and new traditions begun this year as we all celebrate Christmas at home.

Is it possible to maintain those comforting, old traditions… modified for isolation? What are your comforting traditions?

Today I found myself looking WAAAAYYYYY back at childhood traditions. Ah, that’s the stuff to bring a smile to my face! Dad’s traditional reading of “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens came to mind. Every year, wherever we lived, for the nights leading up to Christmas, Dad would read one chapter per night of the traditional Christmas classic. We would all sit around on the floor in front of the fireplace – or at least, I was on the floor, maybe my older siblings took the sofa? – and listen to his voice reading the words first published almost 100 years before he was even born!

Spoiler! Scrooge with Marley

I mean, this was the real deal. No children’s book with cute pictures. No pictures at all, just his voice ringing out while we all listened. As an adult, I used to have the book, but it was donated, like the vast majority of our books before moving overseas. (Books are heavy. Not worth shipping, if available on an e-reader.) Today, finally, I downloaded the classic to my Kindle, and read chapter one out loud.

The comfort of tradition. One chapter, each day for five days, culminating on Christmas Eve, finishing the book just before toddling off to bed.

It is comforting and old! It’s also brand new! How new? First, I don’t remember a lot of the details I’m reading. Maybe my brain was too young to catch it all, or maybe movie versions have diluted it for me, or maybe… was my dad reading an abridged version? I don’t think so, although he might have edited bits out of his reading, by the time I came on the scene – his fourth child. Presumably he’d honed his craft over previous years. Because…Second “new thing”? I don’t read it right! I don’t have the voices or inflection down, and I heard myself pausing at the wrong places. If I read it in my head, I hear my dad’s voice, but when I read it out, it sounds amateurish. Frightening, considering I used to be a paid voice-actor.

Regardless of my own shortcomings, the tradition I’m resurrecting is Comfort to me. What traditions comfort you?

As I said, I’ve been trying to write about Comfort for days. Today, as I read that first chapter, I heard Ebenezer Scrooge repeating a version of the same refrain that has cried out from the Old Testament: “Speak comfort to me!” He wanted Jacob to tell him there were good things in his future, but Jacob couldn’t say that. Scrooge had to learn it later.

Isaiah was much more comforting, saying, “speak tenderly to Jerusalem and proclaim that her hard service has been completed.”  (Isaiah 40:1) This was some centuries before the promised Messiah came, but knowing that the end of our trials is coming IS true comfort.

In this most difficult of years, I pray that everyone reading this will look to the future with hope, and find comfort in the present.

Merry Christmas from me, and a joyous season to you all, celebrating holidays around the world.

 

Show Me the Money!

In my last post, about losing my motorcycle keys, I mentioned that we had intended to go to Đà Nẵng to sort out some banking issues. And I hope you are ready for a thrill ride because this post is about that trip to the bank. 

Exciting…I know.

 

The reason for this trip was because the banking system I use is not really a bank. It is a third-party liaison designed for English-speaking foreigners to be able to easily take care of their finances. It is called TIMO (short for TIme and MOney) and it is amazing. It makes my banking so easy.

However, last month they informed all of their clients that they were cutting ties with the bank they partner with and were moving to a new bank. This meant that all of their services would stop working on a certain day. We would need to download their new app TIMO+ and pop into one of their “hangouts” to get everything switched to the new account with their new bank partner.

They call them hangouts because it sounds better than calling them offices, I guess. But they are very adamant that it is not a bank. They handle no money. They only initiate and process paperwork. And they are not bad places to hang out. They serve free drinks (including beer) while you are there.

The week before, I had popped in for my appointment to switch everything over and was informed that it wasn’t really necessary unless I wanted to. I still had an account at the original bank. I just wouldn’t have the third-party between us anymore.

Now, as much as I would have liked to keep the convenience of having an English-speaking go-between, I did have some concerns about switching to a new bank. I can’t go into all the specifics here, but it had to do with me getting a new passport since opening the account, getting a work permit and residency card, and how Vietnamese taxes work. Going to a new bank would have made things very complicated and possibly have messed a few things up for us long-term, so I opted to stay with the bank I was already in.

Choosing to stay with the bank meant that I had to now go to that bank (for the first time), get a new banking app tied directly to them, get a new ATM card and let them know my intentions to stay. However, without the foreigner liaison service to help me, I was totally on my own and my Vietnamese is far from functional.

 

I have no idea what is happening.

 

I had gone in right after my meeting with TIMO, but their computers were down so no one could help me. Then, Typhoon Noul came through. Almost two weeks passed before I got back to the bank.

When I got there, a lovely young woman was coerced by the other tellers motioned for me to sit at her desk. She spoke ZERO English…but she recognized the word TIMO. I assume many foreigners have stepped in who were with TIMO and wanted to stay. She pulled up her computer and said “passport.”

This is were everything got screwed up.

Remember when I said I had two passports? Well, I handed her the wrong one. I didn’t realize what I had done until she had opened it. “Oh, wait! You need this one.”

She didn’t understand my words, but she did recognize that I had two passports with my picture and name in them. She got on her phone and through a translation app asked me, “Do you have documentation that these are both the same person?”

I knew I was going to be in for a long morning. My passport is my documentation. No one also carries around extra papers explaining that their passport is real. I grabbed both passports and held them up next to my face. These are me. I then pointed out the birth date on each one and the name. They are the same. I then took the new one and pocketed it. Holding the old one, I told her (for the rest of this story, remember that all communication is severely slowed and misunderstood due to having to use our phones to communicate in the different languages), “This is the one you need.”

Unfortunately, she asked for my new passport back and kept looking at them side to side. She then called over other tellers to look at them. They discussed this extensively and started making phone calls. After close to an hour of their confusion (which I understand), she told me that this was a highly unusual situation and they needed to speak with their superiors. She asked for my information so she could contact me in a few days.

I had already been there for a LONG time and my patience was starting to wear thin. Although, I knew this was not their fault. I was irritated, but did not want to take it out on her. I informed her that I had had an account at that bank for two years. I understood that they might be confused about things, but I had not had access to my money for almost two weeks. She could contact anyone she likes, but I needed to get my financial situation resolved today. If I could not get money today, I would just close my account.

 

 

I really didn’t want to do this because then I would have to open an account with my new passport and I wanted to avoid that if possible.

She looked at me defeated, like “What do you want me to do?”

I took a deep breath to make sure I wasn’t getting too excited. Once again, this was not her fault. As frustrated as I might be, she was only doing her job. I pointed at the passport number in my old passport and asked her to type in my number. So far, she had not even looked up my account. She did as I asked and found me. I verified that the amount in the account was correct and she saw that it had my name on it. OKAY! We are starting to get somewhere. Now that I had her attention somewhere other than the extra passport, maybe I could accomplish my goal today.

In order to pay our bills, I needed to get the mobile app up and working, but that requires help from the bank. I couldn’t do it all remotely. It took almost another hour of us downloading apps, sending emails back and forth, and using Facebook Messenger to share links so I could access what I needed to. I had done all of this at home, but not knowing Vietnamese meant that I had not understood the verification instructions. I was supposed to send a text message with a code to a specific number they had sent me and then take the new code they would send me back and plug it into the website. She helped me through all of it. Then she re-activated the ATM card I was already carrying.

Everything was fixed (after almost two hours) and we headed out the door. I was happy to have the passport issue behind me and prayed it would be forgotten about. I left the bank very happy to have access to our money again.

A few days later, that teller messages me.

 

 

Forgive the way it is worded. She ran this through a translator before sending to me. And I knew what she was asking. With all the confusion, they never got my new number. So, I played dumb.

 

 

Haven’t heard from her since. I hope that’s the end of it.

International living can be fun.

Last Place You Look

I have a confession to make. I am lazy.

The oldest of these tweets is from 2012, so I think it is clear that I have known this about myself for quite some time.

I am also quite comfortable with it. Like inappropriately comfortable. My sloth knows no bounds.

However, occasionally, I have to get some stuff done. Earlier this week was one of those days.

Living in a foreign land, some things are quite different than back home. One of those things is our banking situation. I have never set foot in or spoken to a single person at our bank. I don’t even know where it is. I do all my transactions through a third party designed for foreigners. It is called TIMO. And last month, TIMO and the bank that actually holds our money parted ways.

This means that my TIMO phone app and ATM card no longer work. I have no access to my money. I am going to actually have to go into a bank (30 miles away) and try to get all the new stuff (ATM card and actual bank app) without being able to speak the local language. I was not looking forward to this, but it is one of those things that has to be done. After all, they have all our money and we do not have any way to get it. We kind of need it. I tend to be hungry a lot.

Because we live in the tropics, the sun can be unforgiving. This is something that must be taken into account when you use a motorcycle to travel everywhere. Hours traveling on a motorcycle in the tropical sun has beaten me down on more than one occasion. So, these trips to Da Nang require certain measures. Despite the temperature being close to 100, I wear long pants and often long sleeves.

But the most important measure for me is getting an early start. I try to be on the road by 7:30. That would get us to the bank when it opens and if there are no problems, we would hopefully be back home before 10 a.m. Safe from the treacherous satanball trying to kill us from the sky.

We popped out of bed early. Got our breakfast and showers out of the way and were headed out the door at about 7:15. We were doing great on time! The UV demons would not get us today.

I reached for the key bowl by the door and came up empty.

Although rare, this happens now and then. I popped into the backroom to see if I had tossed them on my desk the night before. I had not. I then checked the pockets of the shorts I had worn the previous night. They weren’t there either. At this point, Red started helping me look. 

We checked the kitchen table, all the counters, around the motorcycle outside, under the bed, our nightstands, and the coffee table. We even looked in the freezer. Where could they be?

After spending over half an hour tearing the house apart, it occurred to me that I may have locked them in the seat of the motorcycle. It has a small storage compartment that can be opened using the ignition key. If I locked it in there, I wouldn’t have the key to open it and check.

So, I did something I did not want to do. I went next door to my landlord’s house. He is the sweetest man and takes very good care of us, but he is almost 70 and I do my best not to disturb him unless I really need to. Plus, he does not speak a word of English. We call him Dad.

I showed Dad my problem and hoped he had a way to get into the seat that I might not know about. He tried all the same things that I did. Nothing worked.

Through pantomime and exchanged grunting, he suggests we have the ignition changed out. I don’t see any other choice so I agree. I pulled out my Google Maps so he could show me where to go, but he insisted on speaking into the translator on my phone. The words I got back from the phone were useless, but he would not show me on the map. I don’t believe he understood how it worked.

I was already a little embarrassed for losing my keys, but it only got worse from here.

My well-meaning landlord was going to help me get my motorcycle to the mechanic. He backed my bike into the street and went to get his.

Dad motioned for me to get on his bike and he sat on mine. His intention was to have me push him like in the following video.

But it just didn’t work. I couldn’t even get him started. I don’t know if my angle was wrong, but it wouldn’t work. Plus, even if I had gotten him moving, I didn’t have any clue where we were going. Negotiating turns would have been very awkward. Besides, we live on very narrow back-alley streets. Not much room to maneuver. 

Dad realizes this is not going to work, so he hops off and starts pushing my bike. I try to stop him because there is no reason a 70-year-old man needs to push my bike for me. I can push it myself. I just need to know where to go. He does not listen to me and just keeps moving. So, I am riding his bike at 2 MPH behind him while he pushes in 100-degree heat.

When we get to the first corner, he has me get on my bike. Good! Now I won’t feel like such a putz. He tries to push my bike with his foot while he’s on his own bike. Like in the above video. Once again, it does not work. He has me hop off again and starts pushing my bike down the road. I could not get him to stop and let me do it. I eventually went back and got on his bike and slowly followed him while the local Vietnamese people watched us go by and gave me dirty looks. I don’t blame them. At this moment, I literally was the fat, lazy American.

About 1,500 feet later, we came to the end of this road and his adult daughter Hanh appeared from the other direction on foot. He told her what we were doing and she nodded. She then took my bike and yelled over her shoulder, “Brett, go home.” 

Hanh knows maybe 100 English words. I often get basic sentences like this one from her. 

Dad tried to get me on his bike with him so we could go back, but I really wanted to go with Hanh. If I knew where she was taking my bike, then this is something I could take care of on my own in the future. I like to be self-sufficient when it is possible. However, I was having great difficulty getting Dad to understand why I wanted to follow. And the last thing I wanted to do is be unintentionally insulting. He was going out of his way to help and I wanted to be appreciative. Plus, as I looked back over my shoulder, Hanh had gotten a passerby to start pushing her on the bike. I guess she was more coordinated than us. She was gone. So, I accepted the ride home and waited.

An hour later, Hanh showed up with my bike and told me how much it cost. I paid her and thanked her profusely. I was so thankful, but totally embarrassed and felt utterly helpless.

After she left, we opened the bike seat only to discover the key was not in the seat. That means it was somewhere in the house and would turn up eventually. The changing of the ignition was not necessary, but there was no way of knowing how long it would be before we came across it. We had done what we had to do.

At this point, it was about noon and it had been a stressful morning. Defeated, I turned to Red and suggested we take off to a nice restaurant and try to put the morning behind us. She wholeheartedly agreed. I grabbed my new key and we got our helmets to head outside.

FOUND IT!!!

The key was in a motorcycle helmet that never got picked up because we realized we had no key to go anywhere. I’m beginning to wonder if embarrassment has an upper limit.

Recognizing the Good Things

Over the course of my life, I have been accused of many things. I will not even begin to list them here, but I will tell you one of the things I have never been accused of:

Having a lack of confidence.

Now, to be honest, I have always been filled with self-doubt but I faked confidence because I’ve always believed it made people take me more seriously. Unfortunately, I often went overboard.

As the years went on, I learned to dial it back a bit and come off as less of an arrogant jerk.

I think the youthful arrogance has gone by the wayside for the most part and now I just quietly live my life, but occasionally I feel my pride starting to swell. The past month has been good for my ego. Or bad – depending on how you look at it.

About a month ago, the mother of one of my online students asked me to quit my job and become her son’s personal tutor. She offered me an ungodly amount of money for my wife and me to move to Beijing so I could work exclusively with her son for the remainder of his school career. (He just turned 6 two weeks ago.) She would cover all moving expenses and living expenses and then pay me a very impressive salary. It took some work to convince her that I would never move back to China, but the offer really made me take some pride in my work. I can honestly say that I am good at what I do.

Since then, my wife and I have been asked by a couple of different parents to come to visit them when Vietnam allows travel again. I have been invited to Harbin and Tokyo and Red has been invited to Hong Kong.

Last week, our landlords from our previous house contacted us begging us to come back. They even lowered the rent about 35% from what they were asking when we moved out a year ago. They really enjoyed us as tenants and are sad they created a situation (significant bump in rent) that caused us to leave. Good tenants are difficult to find. Plus, now with COVID, things are even more difficult. It is nice to be wanted.

Finally, just a few days ago, our current landlords commissioned me to be their grandson’s ESL (English as a Second Language) teacher when he turns two. He is currently six months old. Once again, it is nice to be wanted. And it really feels good to be recognized for doing something well.

In the midst of all the misery and difficulties happening in the world right now, it is important to sometimes stop and consider the things that have been going right. We’ve had our setbacks like everyone else, but a quick consideration of the good things as well is good for everyone. We still have plenty to be thankful for.

Now, I just have to get past one of the things I have been accused of many times.

LAZINESS

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Give It Up

Last night, while walking home in the tropical Vietnam heat, I chafed the insides of my thighs bloody raw. Two days ago, I had a kerfuffle with some acid and destroyed my motorcycle helmet. And while these two events are unrelated, I am very thankful it wasn’t the other way around.

As you let that joke sink in, please be advised that I don’t really know what it means either, but I thought of it and had to put it out there. That’s just how my brain works. My wife is almost used to it now. She gets to hear all my jokes before they’ve ripened and become palatable for public consumption.

As I sit here spread-eagled, dumping baby powder onto my “stranger danger no-touch area”, I’m reminded that things don’t always work out as planned.

Seriously. I’m not even supposed to be in this country right now.

For the last year, Red and I have been saving for our trip back to the States to visit family. We were going to fly into Texas, visit the Bloggess at her new Nowhere Bookshop in San Antonio, rent a car to drive to our families in the Midwest, and spend the whole month of June. For those of you keeping score, that is this month. We live 12 time zones away from our families so we knew this trip would be the last time we saw them for a very long time. So, we wanted to make it count.

Unfortunately, the entire world got sick at the beginning of the year and then two weeks ago America basically exploded. Not a good time to visit the States, plus we couldn’t even if we tried since the borders of Vietnam are sealed. International travel isn’t a possibility. So, our best guess for the moment is that our trip has been delayed until next year. However, until the vaccine materializes, things will still stay tense for the countries which are taking it seriously.

So, we have to stay home for a while. I can do that, but summer in Vietnam means an extra-crispy epidermis if you get caught in sunlight. We’ll just stay in. Yet, this would not go as easily as expected. Last week, our television stopped working.

You know that sad way a TV looks when it is turned off?

That is identical to what ours looked like all the time.

While we were waiting for our television to be repaired, we decided the temperature of our living room was intolerable since the tile on our floors were too hot for our feet to comfortably touch them.

Do you remember the FLOOR IS LAVA game you played when you were a kid?

It is not as much fun when you are forced to do it for real.

We went out and bought a stand-up air conditioner to help Red stay cool when she sat at her desk and would hopefully keep our sneakers from melting. We hooked it up and were amazed at the difference that it made. And then, it flooded our kitchen.

The next day a representative from the appliance store came out to look at it. Not being able to speak to each other (the whole Vietnamese thing is kind of tricky), I showed him the video of the river flowing through our house. His solution was that we were not putting enough water in the unit. Yes, I typed that on purpose.
The reason water was leaking out was because it needed more water.

That seemed ridiculous to me, but I often don’t understand how things work in this country. So, I conceded to his wisdom, filled the tank to the top, and let him go on his way after he observed the solved issue. And let me tell you something.

That little man was wrong!

Twenty minutes later, there was water everywhere.

That solved the floor lava issue, but the trade-off wasn’t worth it. They brought us a different model the next day. One that kept the river inside the unit.

Despite the mishaps of the last few months, I recognize we have a great life. But it has been a stark reminder that things do not always go according to plan. Flexibility is useful for more than just the bedroom.

Even if COVID-19 had not permeated every crevice of the planet like rogue glitter at Christmastime, we would still have had to stay home to keep our house from melting.

The Sun! The Sun!

In lieu of the many other pointless activities I could be doing, and in the hopes that many of you have nothing better to do than to read my ramblings, I wanted to elaborate on a post I made on facebook this morning. Well, noon-ish. Whatever.

Where’s its shadow? Directly underneath.

Today, the sun passed directly over our position on the globe. YEEHA!  (at 11:44 a.m., GMT+7, to be specific.) I’m such a freak. Is my freak flag high enough now?

[Anniversary-related Side Note: I am so lucky I found Brett. I think my personal brand of freak flag scared off a lot of “normal” guys. I was never going to change who I was, and I was happy with that, but we married SIX years ago (tomorrow), and it was the best decision of my life.]

Back to my bliss about the sun…

It’s hard to get a picture of a “directly below you” shadow without leaning forward…

This excites me inordinately. It’s just physics. And astronomy. And geography. It happens twice every year! But I love it. I credit my inner Geography nerd, and yes, that’s true, but that can’t be all of it. Does every geography nerd in the tropics sip a toast to the sun when it’s overhead? Doubtful.

Back when I was a kid, when we lived in Sri Lanka – even closer to the equator than my present home – I thought nothing of the sun’s position. It wasn’t a belabored point in my geography classes at school in India, either.

I recall one summer vacation – no idea my age, junior or senior high – when Dad and I were talking about something… I think he was making a joke, or posing a riddle. A lot of Dad’s jokes involved drawing little figures on paper. I don’t remember the joke, but I remember the image. And the answer was something about the person’s lack of shadow. Then followed a discussion about the position of the sun at different latitudes at different times of the year…

My brain was fired up from that moment. I have yet to stand on the equator, but someday… maybe…

I guess everyone in my family is probably a nerd in some respect. These kinds of discussions cannot have been solely the metier of “Dad and me”. Maybe I’m just the most vocal about my private nerdy passion.

Today we have daylight for 12 hours and 45 minutes. The day of the Summer Solstice will be a little over 13 hours long. And that’s all she wrote. Yes, the tropics get hot (We’re already hitting 90° these days, but not much more), but on the flip-side, there’s less daylight, so activity – which dies to a lull in the peak sun each day – picks WAY back up as the sun goes down. My friends who favor Mexico and the Caribbean understand this.

I am SO where I need to be. Have you ever found a place that is just YOU, to a “T”? Yeah. That.

Happy thoughts, everyone! Thanks for indulging my oddities. Stay safe, be strong.