Monday, December 12, 2016

walking.

It’s raining in Saigon. Again. We’re supposed to be out of the rainy season, but I don’t mind it. December seems to be a few degrees cooler than the other months, and the rain brings the temperature down a bit more.

Tonight, while walking back from dinner through the streets of Đa Kao, it was pleasant enough for me to wear a sweater (not a heavy one, but at least something long sleeved), and the rain misted down gently as I circumnavigated some of the near-empty side streets and hẻms on my way home. In high school, one of my great friends was a kid named Andrew who lived with his mom on Quai de Bourbon on the Ile Saint Louis, in two rooms with uneven flooring, high ceilings and hand-painted support beams.  The stone stairs on the way up to the apartment were polished to a shine and worn down by the thousands of feet that scampered up and down them over the centuries. I never met Andrew’s mom; she seemed to be away on business trips a lot, so a few of us would gather at his place in the evenings to get stoned, lean back on the couch cushions, and watch the lights from the passing Bateaux Mouches flicker off the colorful ceiling.  I remember one particular evening emerging from the humid and sultry Pont Marie métro station into the cold misty rain, pulling the lapels of my oversized and massively shoulder-padded green Loden coat more snugly around me (this was the late 80s; oversized and shoulder-padded came with the territory).  The streets were deserted and I wore sunglasses even though night had fallen hours earlier, sunglasses in the rain because I thought it might be a fun thing to do. It was.

I like walking around at night. You see everyday objects and landmarks in a whole new light. Things seem more mysterious. Trees and leaves on the bushes appear more vibrant, more alive, as though they would come to life in the shadows when you turned away, as if they bore secrets. Walking through Đa Kao, I notice more French Colonial structures normally hidden and unseen by loud and colorful daytime commerce. Sidewalks are once again accessible for walking since the motorbikes normally parked every which way have gone home with their respective owners.  The smell of fried shallots wafts across the street from a tiny restaurant, and the open-fronted cafés are sparsely populated with young people.  I walk slowly through the mist with my massive black golf umbrella, seeing flickering lights in windows, wondering what people are watching on their televisions. I could walk these streets all night, except I’m tired from a bout of insomnia brought on by a celebration with too much wine with a good friend last night. I need to go home and lie down.

Friday, December 9, 2016

“Other expats are all wankers” *

I’ve often talked about the expat community. You meet some great people, but occasionally get thrown in with others you wouldn’t be friends with back in your home country.  And you notice all the strange and ugly habits expats have. It’s a bit like living in a bubble: annoying expat habits seem to be magnified by 100.

I met a girl at an event where there was a large array of food on the buffet, including pizza.  She gave a quick glance down the food table. “Oh, pizza!”, she exclaimed. “Too bad, I can’t eat it. Gluten-free over here”, she added, pointing to herself with her thumbs.

“Oh, that’s a shame. But there’s other good stuff you can eat on the buffet.”

“Nah, I don’t care if it touches other food, so I just scoop off the cheese and pepperoni and eat that, then get rid of the crust”.

“Um. You should be careful with that”, I said, raising my eyebrows. I know enough people with celiac disease to know that the slightest bit of cross-contamination would result in some serious consequences.

“Oh, ha haha! It’s okay!”, she said, pleased with herself. “I don’t eat food with gluten cos gluten makes you fat”.



Doing happy hour at a favorite watering hole.  The expat next to me strikes up a conversation, as all expats are wont to do.  We start talking food, which is a pretty neutral and safe subject for me, much like conversation about weather.  Upon finding out I’m a chef, guy starts grilling me.

“So if I had to move to a desert island tomorrow, what would you make me today?”

“What, like last meal or death row meal? That’s entirely up to you. What foods do you crave?”

“Aw c’mon, you’re not playing along. What would you make me?”

“I’d make you whatever you want”.

“COME ON. You can do better than that. YOU’RE A CHEF”.

“I’m not entirely sure I understand this question then. Isn’t this about you, what you would be eating as your last meal before heading out to solitude? This isn’t about me or what I want to eat”.

He sighs, exasperated. “Are you a cook or aren’t you a cook? Come on, what would you make me?”

I'm a little confused by this point and starting to get irritated, so I just blurt out the one thing that comes to mind. “Uh… jambalaya”.

“PERFECT!”, he shouts. “That’s exactly what I was thinking of! So you can make jambalaya?”

“Well, yeah. I can make all kinds of different food”. I’m still a little confused though. Maybe he’s drunk?

“But you can make jambalaya?”

I try not to be too obvious with the eye rolling, but grit my teeth instead. “Yesss”.

“And what else would you make me?”.

Sigh.



Hop on a bus, run into an expat acquaintance I’ve met once before. Start talking a bit, fully aware that the English speakers on the bus are listening in on the conversation.

“I’m having trouble with learning the language”, I lament to the acquaintance. “I’m trying to do this online course, but I can’t easily remember vocabulary words.  I think I might get a tutor”.

Expat eyes widen. “You are actually going to try to learn Vietnamese?”

“Well yeah, of course”, I say, looking up at him with a surprised expression. “Aren’t you?”

He shrugs his shoulders and says rather smugly. “I’ve been here 15 years and never bothered to learn”.



Standing at a bar trying to get in an order. Expat girl next to me drops her phone on the ground. “Ooops!”, she giggles.

“Oh shit, is it okay? Hope the screen isn’t cracked”.

“No biggie, I’ll just get my parents to buy me another one”.

...

Then there's the expats who act all strangely when they find out what I do for a living.

On two different occasions i've had men become angry for, and I quote, "stealing" a job that they think should rightfully have been theirs since they're men.  I got the "How did you get that job?", by an incredulous American, who failed as a chef back home, came here to 'find himself', then moved back home when that didn't work out. "It's not fair, I even went to culinary school and you didn't".

The other one, a European chef, was upset that I was able to find chef work several times when he couldn't. We were at Oktoberfest, and I thought he was going to smash his beer stein over my head. "I've been looking for chef jobs, but nobody will hire me", he said, looking at me accusingly. "I had to get a job in a different field instead. But I want your job. How do I get your job?".

And not to let everyone feel left out, i've had a woman act the same way. She's not a chef, but the French-Canadian wife of a German guy who was transferred here for work. She seemed pretty upset about having to live here in general.  We exchanged business cards, and she was startled. "So your boss is Australian? And they hired you? Why?"

"Uh, what do you mean, 'why'?", I said, narrowing my eyes.

"Forgive me if this sounds rude, but why did they hire you? Why didn't they hire an Australian chef instead?"

"Why don't you ask them? they're standing right over there", I said, pointing to my boss and her husband. trying to find a way to extricate myself from this conversation.

"Oh you think i'm being rude, don't you. I just think it's odd, that's all".

"I don't think it's odd at all. I can cook very well, and they like my food. That's why I got hired".

She smiled politely, so I took my cue and walked away.

The next day she sent me a LinkedIn connect request.  Go figure.



* Title borrowed from another expat during a Twitter conversation about how annoying expats are.

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

Never burn bridges.

Never burn bridges in this town.

The Saigon expat community, though large, is actually quite close-knit. Many new people I meet are a friend of a friend of someone I already know. This is especially true of the food and hospitality community.

Since my current job, which I love, allows me a considerable amount of free time, myself and a few other expat chefs have been asked to do some consulting at a concept store and bistro in District 2. It won’t be much, maybe once a month, but enough to keep their menu fresh, to do some training for the kitchen staff, cross-training with other chefs, and work on the occasional theme dinner and/or pop-up.  And I’m all about theme dinners.

I went for an initial meeting with the owner, a really lovely French-speaking woman who’s been in Vietnam for over a decade.  She’s the good friend of another good friend, so obviously I’ve heard nice things about her and her concept.  We were having an animated conversation when I happened to mention the French restaurant where I worked with the hellacious Volatile French Chef.  She gasped. “Oh! I interviewed him for our Executive Chef position”.

I quickly glanced behind me towards the kitchen. Shit, was he there, lurking? Ugh. I never want to see his smug face again. “Oh, uh…”

She smiled. “No, don’t worry, he’s not here. I didn’t hire him after all”.

I breathed a sigh of relief, and my face must have had the most priceless expression, because she continued. “To be honest, I had a great interview with him. It lasted for hours. He told me all about his life, and I felt I wanted to hire him. He made me feel comfortable, that he understood my vision. I felt he was being so honest and truthful with me. He had a good resumé. And after he left, I asked around. It wasn’t good feedback at all.  But don’t worry, he’s no longer in Saigon. He went to Mui Ne in April, met a girl, came back to marry her in June but that fell through almost immediately, so that's when he interviewed here.  But left again and is in Nha Trang”.  Mui Ne and Nha Trang are beach resort towns several hours away.

“You have done yourself a big fat favor not hiring him”, I said. “I’d tell you some of the things he did, but you may not want to know. It’s pretty bad”.

“Oh?”, she asked, raising her eyebrows. “You can tell me”.

So I did. I didn’t get into all the gritty details, but I did mention the physical and verbal abuse of myself, the staff, and the owner’s wife.  She was so pleased to have dodged the bullet on that one.

So it pays to not burn bridges, especially in this town. I’ve maintained great relationships with most of the people I’ve worked with here, including my first boss, which is good since he and I will probably be working together in some capacity during a food festival next year.

And people like Volatile French Chef, he’ll keep screwing up and have to keep moving further and further away, as he’s done nothing to fix his attitude or reputation.  But that gave me quite a scare, thinking he was standing behind me or hiding in the kitchen during my meeting.

Saturday, November 26, 2016

I'm afraid of Americans.



Thanksgiving night, we dressed up in our Sunday best and sallied out to dinner. My Vietnamese oven isn’t capable of roasting a whole bird (it’s a rather wee countertop thing that turns off after an hour, so you have to keep jumping up and running over to turn the dial again), so eating out was our best option.  This year a lot of restaurants and hotels were offering Thanksgiving meals (drinks included) at decent prices, and that cannot be beat. Last year I didn’t see any special deals, not that I was looking - I mean, I didn’t move to SE Asia to not soak up the culture - but this year, the city and its people have totally embraced Thanksgiving and the absolute horror that is Black Friday.

After a server poured us some wine, I noticed a low din that was slowly getting louder and louder.  I turned around to look. We were one of the first reservations (5:45 pm) but by 6 the place had filled up… with Americans. It took me a minute to adjust to the accents. Except for a small, small handful of people (I’m talking 3), all of our friends are Australian, French, or Vietnamese (or Canadian, or Macanese, or Cambodian; you get my drift). I work for Australians, so I’m used to that accent… but I’m no longer used to hearing the American accent.

I looked at Larry. “Dude. This is kinda freaky”.  He looked around, amazed at the crowd, “Yeah… It’s weird”.
“Who are these people? Did they come out of the woodwork?”
“I don’t know, but there’s a lot of them”.

The more alcohol poured, the louder the voices. Nasally, drawling. Haw-hawing.
“Do I sound like this when I talk?”
Larry laughed. He’s from New York and speaks in a forceful New Yorkese. “I never thought about it”. He shrugged his shoulders.  “I guess so”.
“God, that’s ugly. What an ugly accent we have”.

More wine being poured all around, including for us.  Americans getting drunk in the background, including us.


“I’m afraid”, I wailed loudly.  “I’m afraid of Americans.  Where are my Aussies when I need them?”
“Not celebrating Thanksgiving”.
“Bullshit. They’re drinkers. They can drink me under the table”.

I went up to the buffet and got caught in a stampede of Americans. I quickly snatched some food haphazardly, tossed it onto my plate, and practically ran back to the safety of my seat.  It felt as though we were on a field trip to another planet. We were one of the last tables to leave, as we waited for a large group of about 20, who were seated near us, to vacate the premises.  The din slowly quieted down.

“That was horrendous”, I said in the taxi home. “Thank God for food and booze. I need a shower to cleanse myself of my sins”.
“What sins?”
“I dunno, but I feel all grody now. Too many Americans”.

Here’s hoping you all had a peaceful, restful Thanksgiving.

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

visions of flying coffee-smoked ducks in my head


bar notes.


I don’t know about you, but I’ve been burying myself in side projects. Or at least, spending a lot of time doing research and homework for projects.  I am full of ideas, big, small, unrealistic perhaps, but in my Alice brain they are attainable to me. A lot of my ideas stem from innocent conversations with friends.

A couple of weeks back, I was having a cocktail at a favorite watering hole when I remembered I was out of coffee beans, so I ran next door to the café where I used to work to grab some.  Just my luck they had finished roasting beans that day, and I inhaled deeply, my nose pressed to the bag, as I slowly walked back to my drink.  My friend Jerry smiled at my goofiness (for I am indeed quite goofy).

“Have you ever used coffee in food?” Jerry asked, picking up the bag from where I'd set it on the bar and giving it a good long appreciative whiff.

“Yes,” I replied, my eyes getting wide with food memories flooding back. “In the South part of the US, we use coffee to make a gravy for ham. But we call it Red Eye Gravy.  And you can use the ground coffee in a rub for steaks. Rib eye steaks work well”.

“In Vietnam, too, we use coffee for meat”.

“You do?” I said, shocked. I nearly fell off my barstool in excitement.  “I didn’t know this! Tell”.

“We use it for duck. In the Mekong Delta, in Cần Thơ region.  My grandmother is from there”.

My eyes got as big as saucers, and I eagerly pulled out a notebook and pen and started scribbling. “Tell me more. What do they do?”

“So you must dig a hole and put the duck in the hole”.

“Ooh! They do that in Argentina”.  Damn, why didn’t I bring that Francis Mallmann book with me when I moved here?

“They do?” his face lit up. “Yeah so you wrap duck in banana leaf…” . Jerry spent the next 5 minutes describing what to do.  After the meat is smoked, you discard the skin and roll up the meat with veggies in a rice paper wrapper, tying the roll with a thin piece of spring onion. Per Jerry, the key is to smoke the duck in the leaves discarded from harvesting rice.  “You must use rice leaves. Not the same if you do not. Not the right flavor”.

My mind blurred with visions.  Where could I dig a hole near my house? I could dig up the planter bed out on the terrace, but the landlady would have a fit.  What about the newly empty lot next door, I could dig a hole there before they restart construction, no one would ever know…  Jerry interrupted this flow with a firm, “But you can’t just dig a hole anywhere. It has to be Mekong Delta, and it has to be Cần Thơ, it has to taste of countryside.  Otherwise, it’s not real. It’s not countryside”.  Me, scribbling on my notes: Smells like countryside. Can’t do this anywhere but countryside. 

So now I’m obsessed with heading over to Cần Thơ and getting someone to slow smoke a coffee-rubbed duck for me. I don’t think I’ve lived until this moment happens.



On days where I’m cooking for more than just a few, my clients hire someone to help serve, clear, and help me out in the kitchen.  Ly and her family are from Saigon; Ly is very sweet, completely capable, and I never have to tell her what to do.   On one occasion when I had Ly helping out for a lunch function, I had a Keralan-inspired curry working on the stove, and was messing around with tamarind pulp.  Tamarind is not something I’m used to working with; I only used it a couple of times in the US, and that came from an already processed jar found in an ethnic store.  But here, it’s aplenty (my urban street has tamarind trees growing along it). And there I was, getting frustrated, trying to scoop away pulp from the big black seeds, when Ly swooped in to save the day.

“I show you what my mother does,” she said, pouring a bit of steaming hot water in my bowl of tamarind pulp.  “You put water, you use a spoon, and you stir. Stir a lot. Then, the seeds come out automatically”.

And sure enough, the more I stirred, the more the seeds dislodged themselves from the pulp.  Such a small kitchen trick that maybe a lot of Westerners know about, but I certainly didn’t. It made my life so much easier that morning, and will in a future project I'm not going to discuss yet as it's growing in the dark of my brain and on the back of a bev nap.

The curry was great too.  I may share my recipe one day.

on the left, tamarind pulp. on the right, hello seeds.


Sunday, November 20, 2016

chinatown.

We met Grace on the corner of Châu Văn Liêm and Nguyễn Trãi streets, on the edge of Saigon’s Chinatown.  Grace’s family on both sides are of Chinese descent, and she regularly visits a pagoda to pay respects and pray.  Given our affinity for this kind of stuff, we eagerly agreed to accompany her, and she leapt at the chance to show off part of her heritage and daily life.

We walked to the nearby Chinese Buddhist temple of Chùa Ôn Lăng, which I believe is dedicated to a female bodhisattva and goddess of the seas.   Grace bought bottles of cooking oil from a vendor outside the pagoda, then showed us the ritual of praying at all the altars and pouring out a bit of oil in each of the lit lamps as an offering. Any leftover oil we had would be donated to the temple, who then give it to older devotees who can’t afford to pay for any offerings.

Afterwards we went to a chicken and rice eatery, appropriately named Cơm Gà Đông Nguyên (com = rice; ga = chicken).  All the cooking is done outside, and the dining room is up a flight of stairs in a white tiled air conditioned room.  As we sat eating plates of chicken with rice cooked in chicken broth, pork with crispy skin, a black chicken soup in medicinal herbs, and pork tripe, the highly entertaining conversation gravitated around food and Grace’s family.

“People here kill chicken by wringing neck. But my father, he do different”, she said. “He give them vodka”.

Me, suppressing a laugh. “Your Dad gets the chickens drunk?”

Grace nodded solemnly. “Yes! He feel bad for chicken. Everybody kills chicken by wringing neck and he don’t want chicken to be scared. He get chicken drunk, then he wring neck. Chicken die happy”.

Larry and I burst out laughing.  “Well”, I said, drying away tears of laughter with the back of my  hand, “I bet the meat tastes better since it’s tenderized”.  Grace nodded. “Yeah, my father, he thinks so too”.

She then talked about her grandfather. “My grandfather, he eat the same thing every day. For 86 years! He eat white porridge for breakfast. White porridge for lunch. And dinner, he eat regular food, but also a bowl of white porridge”. She added, “He never sick”.

“White porridge? Like congee?”, I asked.

“Yes”.

“Wow”, I said. “Bland white porridge is the key to good health! I best get on that”.

“Yes. And then one day he go to hospital and he die”.

“Wait, what? He’s dead? Your grandfather is dead?”

“Yes. They not have white porridge at hospital”.

Never a dull moment in Saigon.

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

fooding.

Yellow pomegranates. The one on the left weighs in at a whopping 800 grams (that’s about 1.75 lbs!), and I hope it’s ripe and full of good juicy arils because I plan on using them as part of a grilled eggplant salad on Friday, part of some vaguely Mediterranean buffet lunch I’m making for my clients. 


The locals seem to be interested in the food I’m buying.  Recently I walked down to my favorite street market to get vegetables, about a 2 km walk from the house; and on the way back it started to rain pretty hard so I jumped on a bus headed home.  The conductor pointed to the empty seat directly behind the driver.  As I plonked down and put my bags on the floor, the driver, noticing me in the rearview mirror, said in English, “Where you from?”.  “America”, I replied, to which he gleefully said, “Ah! AMERICA! Ha ha ha!”, then rambled off a few things in Vietnamese to the conductor.  She leaned over from her seat across the aisle and began digging through my grocery bags to see what I had bought, picking out lettuce and herbs and showing them to the driver.  I’m guessing he approved, because he kept nodding and grinning.

This is something I’ve gotten used to. It would be different if random people were rifling through my handbag, but this is just groceries and I’m guessing they’re just curious as to what I’m eating.  One day while I was waiting for Larry to get a haircut after a bout of grocery shopping, one of the stylists sat beside me and started poking through my grocery bag.  “Ca chua… Mit…”, I said, as she pulled out a tomato then some jackfruit sections. “You good!”, she exclaimed, “You know Vietnamese food! I teach you more”.  So she pulled out other items and had me repeat after her what they were.

Sometimes on my way back from shopping I’ll walk along Dong Khoi street (formerly Rue Catinat back in French Colonial days).  It’s one of my favorite streets to walk down, even though I’m constantly having to dodge women every 10 feet shoving a flyer for a massage parlor in my face. Dong Khoi is home to some pretty spectacularly cool old buildings, though I believe there’s the threat of them being torn down soon. Halfway up the street a disabled woman sits in front of the Parkson department store selling gum.  I don’t know her name, but we’ve become pretty friendly.  Sometimes we’ll give her some small bills, but we don’t take her gum because we’d prefer she sell it to tourists and be able to make some money.  One day while we stopped to talk in our lousy Vietnamese and her broken English, she made a motion for us to hand over a grocery bag so she could see what was inside.  She pulled out ginger, a cucumber, and a lime and held them up to us expectantly.  I realized she wanted them for herself, so I nodded. A look of rapture spread across her face and she burst out laughing. So of course now when I walk down the street with any groceries at all, I know she’ll rifle through them and pull out a carrot, or a piece of fresh turmeric, a beet, or another lime (she seems to really like beets and limes).  I’ve gotten used to  buying a few extra of those.

Today I had some shopping to do at Annam, which is the Vietnamese version of Whole Foods, meaning that everything is overpriced but sometimes they have that one item you just can’t live without.  There’s a brand new Annam location in the Saigon Centre shopping mall, and it’s much bigger and nicer than the other store branches. It’s where I go when I’ve had a bad day and just want to look at all the shiny pretty things (some women window shop for shoes; I window shop for food). On today’s trip I bought a head of frisée lettuce from the Da Lat mountainous region where a lot of vegetables in Vietnam are grown. Walking home, I stopped off at one of the international stores on Ham Nghi where my usual clerk waved and came up to see what I needed today.  She spied my bag and scowled, motioning for me to hand it over for a look-see. Pulled out the bag of frisée, still scowling at it. “This looks fresh. Good deal”, she said, nodding, looking at the price tag and giving it her stamp of approval, before putting it back in my bag and helping me find a square cake pan with removable bottom, the object of my shopping trip to Ham Nghi.

...

After a seated event for 12 the other night, after all the cleanup and packing up, I was preparing to leave but sat talking to a colleague of mine while she had a post-prandial ciggie. She’s my client’s assistant, a vivacious and well-connected woman who is extremely efficient at her job (and knows it too).  She suffered some kind of nasal injury as a child which resulted in her not having a sense of taste.

“What I like about your food is that you understand textures. I can’t taste anything, so I totally rely on that. You have such interesting textures going on, and a lot of cooks don’t get that”.

Me: “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me about my cooking!”

Indeed, I was incredibly flattered.  I never thought about my food having textures. As a cook, sure, I instinctively think of textures (I think); you know that adding crunch to a soft dish (like coconut puddings topped with chopped peanuts) will play nicely together and have a really good mouthfeel, but I don’t focus on it. I spend most of my time thinking flavors, and layering of flavors. It made me wonder, do other cooks think the same way as I do or do they think texture first - flavor later? Or is it just instinctive all around?

Friday, October 21, 2016

a world beyond pho

A friend of mine from Atlanta, in the midst of a whirlwind tour to SE Asia, stopped by for two nights. He landed in Hanoi, then moved on to Bangkok before arriving in Saigon. As he was about to board a plane to Hong Kong, he whined: “I ate really well, but come to think of it, I didn’t even eat any pho!”, to which I replied. “But there’s so much more to Vietnamese food than pho!”.

In Hanoi, which he didn’t particularly like, he ate at the bun cha joint made famous by President Obama and Anthony Bourdain’s visit last May.  In Bangkok (“a cross between Vegas, New Orleans, and New York; it’s sensory overload!”), he ate at the floating markets and got food poisoning.  When he arrived in Saigon, he said he was game to eating almost anything as long as he took some medicine first.

So we ate - and ate, and ate.  We ate banh khot, the tiny pancakes cooked in cast iron molds, filled with coconut milk and crab meat. Cau lau, a dish traditionally made in Hoi An, noodles and pork with very little (but extremely flavorful) broth. Fresh spring rolls which we rolled up in lettuce and mint and dipped into nuoc mam cham (fish sauce with chilis, lime juice, and sugar).  A vat of clams in a starfruit broth with tomatoes and loads of fresh dill. Caramelized pork ribs encrusted with sesame seeds (which he proclaimed to be “one of the best things I’ve ever put in my mouth”).  And consumed more ca phe sua da (iced coffee with sweetened condensed milk) in two days than I’ve had in a year of living here.

One can find Vietnamese restaurants all along Buford Highway in Atlanta, and lot of their menus consist of more than pho and banh mi sandwiches, but those two food items are really the only things that most Atlantans know as Vietnamese food, which is a crying shame.

Two days is just not enough time to sample the variety that encompasses Vietnamese cuisine. He said he’d come back next year, with wife and kids in tow, and vowed to spend more time diving into the food culture.  And I’m glad I’m doing my part to convince people back home that there’s a whole great big wide world out there beyond pho.

Friday, October 14, 2016

Deal with this, please. I’ve drank half a bottle of wine and I’ve some shit to get off my chest.

Every day I wake up and I think, “What did Trump say now?”.  I’m 11 hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time, so when I wake up, I check Twitter since it’s the end of the day on the previous day in the US. And every day for the past couple of weeks there has been some turmoil or bullshit that has popped up because Trump’s mouth has no filter, and it’s never good. It makes me sick to my stomach.

20 years ago I left an abusive relationship. I lived in the state of Florida. I got a restraining order, then moved to Savannah, Georgia. Two months later, the abuser showed up on my doorstep. He followed me to class; he followed me around town. He followed me home from work late one night when I worked a catering job after classes, and he forced me into my house. He raped me and sodomized me.

The next morning, after he left, I called Chatham County Sheriff’s Department, and I told the policeman on the other line what happened. I may not remember a lot of things, but what that man said has been etched into my brain forever. “Well, unless you have a bruise on your face, or a picture of him on your doorstep pressing on your doorbell, there is nothing we can do for you, little lady”.

I’ll never forget those words.  “Little Lady”.

I moved. The abusive stalker moved on, I thought. I moved away, to Atlanta, then Baltimore, then back to Atlanta.  And then I started getting phone calls from creditors, telling me that they were looking for him, because he owed them money. What in the fuck does that have to do with me? Nothing. I hung up. I got married to a decent guy. I never thought I’d have to deal with the abuser again.

And then came the time of social media. I started getting Facebook messages from him, at first being nice, saying, “Hi how are ya?”, shooting the shit like nothing bad had ever happened. As if I would be receptive to saying hello.  As if I would say, “Hey! How’s life? You doing good? How’s that left hook going, you still got it?”.  I ignored him. When I didn’t answer him, the messages became threatening, calling me a bitch for not answering him.

I never responded to any of these.

Why didn’t I block him, you ask? Because I always needed to know where he would be, so that I would be one step ahead of him.  I didn’t want to run the risk of running into him by accident. Blocking him wouldn’t help ease the uncertainty that he wouldn’t be waiting around the corner. This is the kind of shit that women who have been abused think about and have to deal with.  You didn’t think of that, dear reader, did you? Well, welcome to our normality. Every time I parked my car anywhere, every time I walked up my driveway or went to a grocery store, I looked around me to ensure he wasn’t lurking in the shadows.  And I still do that, half a world away, when I moved to Vietnam. I look around me wherever I am to ensure he’s not there. It's instinctive.

And he found out where I live; he lurked on my LinkedIn, a place where I felt safe because it allows me to interact with normal people and look for normal jobs. He saw where I worked. He sent me messages about how much he missed me, how he wanted me to change my profile picture so he would know what I now look like. Twenty fucking years later he does this.

Back in the day he constantly boasted about grabbing pussy, about grabbing tits, about how that’s what women want. And when the recordings of Trump came out, it brought back way, way too many memories of my past life, which brings me to the here and now.

Trump is an asshole, for many, many reasons.  Making fun of disabled people; thinking he’s better and smarter than everyone else; being a full on total waste of a human being.   Why on earth people think this “Good Ol’ Boy’s Club” is the norm is beyond me. Why every morning I see cousins and friends of mine on Facebook bleat like sheep about how “Why should this man be punished for saying bad words? It’s just locker room talk”. You must be joking. My father, my brother, and my boyfriend would NEVER speak this way in a locker room. My male friends wouldn’t either. Most men I know wouldn’t. Trump is the kind of man who thinks he’s done no wrong. Trump is like my ex. Trump is like many women’s exes. They think they can get away with it because they HAVE gotten away with it, with no thanks to people like that cop in Savannah belittling me. They can push and push and push and STILL annoy you from halfway across the world. And I’m embarrassed to be associated with people who think this way.

This whole “Make America Great Again”? It’s INSULTING.  I didn’t think America was such a bad place to live. My mom came to the US at the age of 18, which makes me a first generation American. Most of my American friends are first, second, and third generation. It pains me to see people embrace Trump like he’s telling “the truth”. What truth is this? Are you giddy, happy, ecstatic that he talks the way he does? Would you make fun of the family of a fallen soldier? Would you make fun of a disabled person? A Latina beauty queen? Would you talk about women like they are cheap? So why in hell are you supporting him? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, but you’re not… but why the fuck aren’t you?

Guess what, Trump. You’re the cheap one.  You are the abusive ex we’ve been trying to get rid of.

Now, get the fuck out of our lives. For good. And take my abusive ex with you, to Hell.


Sunday, September 11, 2016

rainy season.

Street art. I believe that sign says something along the lines of making sure you lock up your vehicle lest it gets stolen. Or something like that.


Streetwise.

Arrived at my new client’s, dropped off my grocery bags in the kitchen and told him I still had a few more errands to run for dinner that night. “That’s fine”, he said. “Our housekeeper can take you on her bike if you want so you don’t have to go on foot”.  He asked Mrs. Lien if she wouldn’t mind driving me to the markets. “Ham Nghi?”, she asked (Ham Nghi street is where the two international stores are located. “Yes”, I said, “And around the corner on Ton That Dam to the street market for vegetables”. “Ok, we go now”.  

Though I’ve lived in Saigon for one year, I am still too chickenshit to get behind the handlebars of a motorbike. Which is pretty stupid, I’ll admit. Most of my expat friends drive. After all, I learned how to drive in France, and from what I gather there’s not much difference in the way the Vietnamese and French drive.  I drove my mom’s car four years ago on a two lane road along the Mediterranean, and though there were some hairy moments (I’d forgotten that there are no stop signs in France so people merge willy nilly and flip you off for not letting them cut in front of you), I managed just fine.  And in Vietnam, sure, there are laws and rules, but few follow them. Cops waving you down mean nothing; just smile and keep driving, is what a Vietnamese friend told me. After all, they’re not going to come after you (unless they're the cops dressed in all black - those are the serious Take No Prisoners/Take No Shit cops; you do what they say).  Sidewalks are not meant for pedestrians, they’re for motorbike riding and parking. One way streets? No such thing to some drivers, even if that sign says you can’t drive in that direction.  Wrong way drivers tend to hug the curb, so if you’re on foot crossing a one way street, always look in both directions or you’ll get plowed down.  But on the plus side, most of the time your glare will be reciprocated with a smile and a “Sorry!” in English. 

So I hopped on the back of Mrs Lien’s bike and she was off… and immediately scooted at top speed down a sidewalk, pedestrians jumping out of her way. Next onto a one way street going the opposite direction, with a bus headed straight for us and various honking taxis. Rain hit me hard in the face and I got scared. My arms tensed as I reached back and attempted to grip the seat behind me and hoped for the best. Somehow or another, Mrs Lien managed to dexterously maneuver her machine through rainy day traffic, and blatantly ignore the honking and other drivers.  At one point on our adventure, she came across a wall of motorbike drivers, all driving the proper direction. When our way was blocked, she stopped her bike and proceeded to loudly berate one of the drivers (at least, that’s what I think she was doing) until he sheepishly backed his bike out of our way and let us through. I’ve never been so fucking scared in my life as she raced right smack down the middle of the street, ignoring a bus headed straight for us, horn honking so loudly that I went deaf for a minute. I have no idea how she managed to skirt around the bus without smashing into it into head on. When she finally came to a stop back at our client’s place, she was laughing. Jesus, I thought, did she do that on purpose to scare me?

In the hands of the Motorbike Gods.


Tricky tiles.

Saigon’s sidewalks are for the most part paved with one kind of tile. There are exceptions, like granite in some of the high tourist areas, and I noticed a few streets in Go Vap when I lived there where the tile was different; but I’d wager a guess to say that 90% of the sidewalk tiles that i’ve seen in the city are the same and manufactured by the same company. Whoever owns that company must make bank. Due to my firsthand knowledge that sidewalks are alternate routes for motorbike drivers, I've noticed the tiles are often broken.  No sidewalk is flat (this also has to do with tree roots growing underneath).  Sometimes the tiles get fixed, though not as quickly as we’d like. There was an article a few months back stating that a lot of main thoroughfares in District 1 would have their sidewalks repaved starting in the next month or two; my street was on that list.  It’s now mid-September and I’ve yet to see any construction.  During rainy season, water gets underneath the broken tiles, so if you walk everywhere (like I do), occasionally you’ll come across one in your travels and once you step on it, the water gushes upwards and splashes your leg.  I ruined a good pair of heels this way (lesson learned: never wear heels on the sidewalks here, also see above about them not being level and with me being a klutz, I’ve tripped and fallen quite a bit).  I call these tiles “tricky tiles”.  On familiar walks, I know exactly where the tricky tile is and I try to avoid it, but sometimes one must accept Tricky Tile Fate because I hit at least one new one per day.

Rainy day in Saigon. Is that a sidewalk, you ask? No. It's a BOOBY TRAP.


Lazy rainy Sundays.

There's a growing craft beer movement in Saigon, which is pretty exciting for us residents.  Not that there is anything wrong with the local Bia Saigon (or Bia Hanoi, or Tiger, or Larue, etc).  Sometimes you just want a taste of home, like a good hoppy IPA.  A half dozen or so craft breweries have popped up here in the past year or two, creating American-style beers using local ingredients.  BiaCraft, a taproom, showcases all of the brands including their own brews.  Up until now, BiaCraft's only location was in District 2, but this week they opened a new location in District 3 near my house.  So while I started a big vat of chicken stock not to be disturbed on the stove for a few hours, I went to check out the new place.  Ensconced on the patio with a cold beverage watching the rain come down, I watched two guys pull up on a motorbike, one of them balancing two kegs on his knees.  Turns out they're the brewmasters from LAC Brewing, two guys from Portland, Oregon named Michael and Lucas, come to deliver more of their Devil's Lake IPA since BiaCraft had already run out at the new location (and it's only been opened for 4 days). 

I love this town.

Delivering the goods.