Time for change

I have had to move my blog since I can't access this one from my computer over here. My new address is http://sweetdreamsflyingmachines.wordpress.com. I hope you'll follow me there. I love reader comments.

I hope you have a menu.

One thing I really like about Vietnam is that the people here don’t make you feel foolish for not knowing what’s going on. They are friendly and seemingly honest. I know we get the “white price” on a lot of things, but it becomes a game of handing them different denominations and them giving us back whatever isn’t necessary. If you accidently hand them a 100,000 bill instead of a 10,000 they won’t keep it. It’s not uncommon for someone to hold the contents of their wallet out to the taxi driver and let him take what is owed. Dealing with prices with so many zeros behind them has taken some getting used to.

Having lived overseas before, I am especially appreciative of the companionship and money I have now. When I lived in Spain I rarely went out alone. I was intimidated by my lack of knowledge and often felt vulnerable as a lone female. I know once we move to Saigon, Jonathan starts flying, and the other ladies stay here in Hanoi I will be on my own a lot more, but I believe that now, while I have my safety net of Jonathan and friends, I will become comfortable enough to be fine when I am on my own.

In Spain, I was also constantly struggling to make ends meet. I didn’t want to order something without knowing how much it would cost and if it would be worth my money. We definitely have more money now (which is wonderful), but knowing how much further the money goes makes a huge difference to me mentally. It’s much easier to order - not really knowing what you’re getting, hoping it’s something edible - knowing that there’s no way it can cost more than $5.

We have eaten at several new places this week. One of them was where we had phở bò, which I knew they had based on the sign out front. The other two were more of a challenge.

Tuesday night four of us walked to the right out of the hotel entrance. This is a less explored area for most of us, but I figured based on the amount of traffic we had seen earlier, there must be food. We walked and walked, passing empty chairs at curbside cafes, looking for a place that was busy. Everyone says if it’s busy it must be good and safe. The few places that did have people didn’t have any available seats.

We finally got to the end of the road and found a huge, two-story place. It was facing the main road. The downstairs was full of chairs and tables that spilled out on the curb - nearly onto the road. Between the customers and the traffic it was a noisy, lively place. We followed their hands signs, walked upstairs, and took an empty table. Everyone seemed to notice us – we were the only white people there – but unlike many places I’ve been, we rarely got more than a curious glance. I think it’s because we were in a bia (beer) house.

The waitress brought us four plastic packets that had towels in them. After seeing these again at another restaurant, we discovered that they will charge us for these,whether we use them or not, unless we specifically return them. They will also bring more than you need. I can only assume they hope you won’t notice, won’t use them, and will pay anyway. Maybe it’s their service charge.

She also brought two plates of peanuts in their shells. They didn’t look like our boiled peanuts, but when we started eating them the insides tasted boiled. She asked if we wanted beer, but since everyone had to study for a test the next day, we ordered four Cokes. She returned with four glasses, and four cans of warm Coke.

Then came the part where she stood there looking expectantly at us waiting for our order. All four of us franticly examined the tables around us, but couldn’t figure out what to get. The waitress brought an older man from downstairs who was very friendly, smiling, and asking where we were from. He brought one menu. It had several pages, all full of writing, with only silhouette images of animals. We referenced the menu section of my phrasebook and attempted to order from the rau (vegetable) section and the section with the cow.

After all that this is what we ended up with: a large oval plate of what I believe is watercress (it looked like long, small celery with more greenery on it) stir-fried with garlic; another similar plate of beef stir-fried with onions, carrots, and some other green vegetable; and two bowls of a cold salad that involved shredded carrots, cucumbers, bean sprouts, white, woody stalks of something, slivers of meat resembling bologna (Wikipedia says it’s chả lụa – a sausage made with lean pork and potato starch), and green leaves that I assume were herbs. It had a dressing on it and, between the woody stalks and unidentified meat, was my least favorite of the dishes.

The total for our meal was 250,000 VND – which is about $3.20 per person.

The one other non-pilot, Saigon lady, Kari, and I went for a walk around the entire West Lake yesterday, and ended up in a very similar meal situation. We did go for the beer this time. It’s all locally brewed, and at these places there is always someone sitting next to a keg pouring glasses and pitchers. From what I can tell, it’s about two steps above water, but tastes good on a hot day.

This time our lunch started with bags of roasted peanuts (which we were also charged for – not a big deal, but good to know) and signing for a menu. It was a huge place with tables inside and out, and I had to position my chair in a certain spot to avoid the view of a whole, roasted, hairless, teeth-intact - man’s best friend. I don’t consider myself to be particularly squeamish, but even writing about it makes my stomach turn. We debated asking whether it was actually dog, but were afraid they might think we wanted some. (We asked after we had eaten and it was confirmed – in English.)

Instead we pulled out the phrasebook and ordered things we knew would not have meat in them - fried rice and vegetables. The vegetables were, again, stir-fried with garlic and wonderful. The receipt says rau muong xao (I don’t know how to make it tonally correct with this keyboard). Xao means (surprise, surprise) stir-fried, and muong is water spinach. It’s so good. The book says the fried rice is Cantonese-style. It reminded me more of couscous because of the crumbly versus sticky texture. There were tiny bits of meat, as is common in fried rice, and was also tasty. They brought us two plates of it, but we could have shared one since neither of us could finish it.

Price of lunch for two - including four beers, peanuts, and one washcloth - was 94,000 VND/ $4.82.

I saved the receipt from the lunch place (first one I’ve seen in a week) and took note at dinner the other night. In order to write using more than color descriptors and Vietnamese words, I’ve spent almost as much time researching as I have writing this. This is also helping me become more accustomed to what I’m seeing every day. Certain words are showing up over and over and starting to look familiar.

I still have no idea about the pronunciation of most things, but we’re taking it one step at a time.

You can't be a chicken if you want to cross the road.

Walking down the street in Hanoi can be a daunting feat. I feel like I’m doing a dance and I have yet to learn the steps. If I step too close to the storefronts, I might trip over one of the many people squatting on the sidewalk eating, preparing food, washing dishes, playing a board game, or just squatting. If I step too far the other way there is the traffic – the constant, maddening rush of traffic.

So I try to find the balance between the two, all the while avoiding trash, avoiding puddles, avoiding being near puddles when someone drives by, avoiding taxi drivers who slow down and honk hoping for a customer, avoiding holes in the sidewalk (if you’re so lucky for there to actually be a sidewalk.)

While there are plenty of cars and busses, the main traffic is bicycles and motorbikes. It is not uncommon to see three men riding together, hands on each other’s waists. Most adults wear helmets (I think it’s the law), but the children sandwiched in between rarely do. Many of the women and children also wear masks. They have more structure than a surgical mask and come in many stylish colors. Some people completely cover their faces and heads in spite of the heat. After spending a few days walking around the city, I can only assume it’s to protect them from the pollution and smells. It’s also common to see a lady driving a motorbike in high heels.

I sat at a café yesterday during a rainstorm and watched the traffic go by. Almost everyone wears ponchos, but many of the drivers looked like hunchbacks with four legs - kindly sharing a poncho with their back seat rider. Most of the ponchos are colored, but on many the lower half of the front is clear. This is so they can drape them over the front of the motorbikes and the headlight won’t be blocked. I think it is genius.

I mentioned the traffic previously, but I feel there isn’t enough that can be said about it. The first few days we were here we went to the Old Quarter every day. It’s usually $2-3 cab ride (regardless of the number of people) and takes about 15 minutes. We only saw two or three traffic lights the whole way. Major intersections work by everyone watching everyone else and squeezing in the first available space in whatever direction you want to go.

Organized chaos is the best description I can come up with. I know that accidents do happen (one of our pilots got hit by a car on his motorbike), but in general the movement of the traffic is impressive. It flows smoothly with a steady, yet friendly, honking of horns. I’m getting used to it, but as an American, it is difficult not thinking people are angry when they honk. I’d be lying if I said the horns still didn’t make my heart jump occasionally.

The first time we crossed what would be a four-lane road (if there were actually lanes), Jonathan boldly dashed out into the traffic. Based on the advice of others and by watching him, we discovered that the key to a successful crossing is to keep moving. So step out, always looking into the traffic and making eye contact if possible, and start walking at a leisurely pace. Occasionally I have tried to slow down or stop for a car or scooter, but inevitably it causes them to swerve and then I have to make a run for it. After almost a week of these heart-pounding street crossings, I am brave enough to walk across a road without waiting for a huge break in traffic. You may never get it.

Don’t even get me started on what the traffic feels like at night. You think you have it all figured out, and suddenly everything is dark and all you see are headlights coming at you. I haven’t figured that one out yet.

Among our group there are a lot of hypothetical pools going. One of the main ones is who will be first to get hit by a car while walking. I’m going to keep my feet moving, and hope it’s not me.

So, if you are looking for a sense of accomplishment – something to make you really feel good about being alive - spend an afternoon safely crossing the street in Hanoi.

Is there more to my life than food?

It’s the second day of training for Jonathan and I am again reminded that it is going to take an active effort for me to make good use of my time here. It helps that there are five other wives and girlfriends here who are in the same unemployed, homeless state. Four of them will be staying here in Hanoi so they will begin house hunting, but for the most part we have our days free to do as we please.

Yesterday we took one of the wives who had just arrived over to the grocery store and the GO. We had bun cha at the usual place on the left, and café sua da on the right. The learning curve here is intense so those of us who have been here four or five days are able to help the others find their way around, buy water, and eat lunch – just as someone passed on the information to us. (After waking up freezing every night, I was just told there is a comforter in the cabinet under the TV!)

So far the only consistent thing in our days is breakfast. The hotel provides it from 6-9am every day. It is definitely the easiest meal of the day. You don’t have to wonder where it came from or how much it’s going to cost. You don’t have to try to make someone else understand what you want or try to figure out what they are actually offering. There’s no wondering whether they will come serve you or if you are supposed to go ask them for food. No one stares at you or tries to take pictures of you while you eat.

They have a good variety of fruits - including watermelon, bananas, golden fruit (similar to cantaloupe but crunchier), and dragon fruit – Happy Cow cheese, yogurt (which is much runnier than we’re used to), and various rolls and bread for toast with butter and some kind of jam. There are fried and hard-boiled eggs, bacon (though a little soft for my taste), and something that reminds me of Vienna sausages.

Then you get to the Asian side of the buffet, and it stops looking like breakfast. Several mornings we had sautéed cabbage. Other mornings it was broccoli. There are fried noodles, fried rice, some kind of soup, and the makings for phở.
There are two pots on the warmer – one of thick, dark coffee, and the other of thick, dark tea. There are two pitchers of milk – one regular, and one condensed. They have some kind of juice as well, but I haven’t yet to have any.

The other nice thing about breakfast is that it is where we see the other members of our group and make plans for the day.

After breakfast I usually feel like going back to our room, checking email, cleaning up, and writing. The only problem with this (and I think I’ll just have to get over it) is this is when they come to clean our rooms. I feel extremely awkward sitting at the computer while someone is making my bed and cleaning the bathroom. I tried to tell her today she didn’t have to do it, but she can’t understand me and just smiles and keeps doing whatever she’s doing. And if we put the ‘do not disturb’ sign up, we won’t get our little pink tickets that let us in to breakfast the next day.

Sometimes she brings a new flower for the vase on the desk, and every day she goes out and sweeps the balcony – even though we never go out there. Today we got a special treat and they took all the old furniture out and put new in (except for the bed unfortunately.) When there were ten people in here drilling (they moved the headboard over 6 inches), moving the TV, chairs, and tables, and relocating the picture on the wall I decided it was time to leave – even if it meant walking around in the drizzling rain.

Three of us went out looking for lunch, and decided to head the opposite way out of the hotel than we normally go. The road has little or no sidewalks (I don’t think they believe in them here), and, in spite of it being one lane wide, city buses regularly send us scurrying for cover. I don’t want to be the person who gets the wave of water every time a car goes past and there’s a puddle. We usually have to walk single-file everywhere we go. This is good for the health and bad for conversation.

The first place we come to has a sign that advertises phở bò. I’ve had pho, and I’m pretty sure bo is beef. There are plenty of people inside which we take as a good sign. We stop at the front door next to the lady stirring the huge pot (we’ve also heard that’s a good sign because it means they are going through a lot of food), but when she ignores us we walk down the stairs into the restaurant and take a seat. Once again, the seat is a plastic seat that you would normally see in a kindergarten room, and I can barely fit my knees under the table.

We sit for a few minutes looking around us, unsure whether we will, in fact, be waited on, and eventually I go back upstairs. There’s a different person stirring the pot now. I hold up three fingers and say “phở bò.” He nods at me, and I go sit down again.

We patiently wait for our food - all the while a girl across the room quite conspicuously takes pictures of us with her cell phone. Shortly, three steaming bowls of noodles, broth, beef, and green onions are placed in front of us (reaching three feet across the two men who have taken the other end of our short tables). I am still baffled by how hot (temperature and spice-wise) the food here is. I figured I was already sweating so I added some chili sauce and pickled garlic and chilis. Not only did I have a tasty lunch, but I also got a spicy steam bath for my face.

The fishermen of West Lake

We woke up this morning to the sound of rain outside. Yesterday, at one point, it rained so hard we couldn’t see the other side of the lake. I’m enjoying the rain because unlike most summer storms in Atlanta, things actually cool down after the rain is over. I kept hearing what sounded like a bamboo wind chime, kind of a hollow, wooden clinking sound, but when I stepped on the balcony to see where it was I couldn’t find one. That may be the sound of rain on the orange tile roof.

The exterior wall of the room is a huge window with a door going onto a balcony. There aren’t any chairs on it so we don’t spend much time out there – plus it’s usually swarming with gnat-like bugs. I do enjoy watching the activity outside during the day though.

Besides the usual golfers immediately to our left, there is almost always someone fishing or doing something in the water. One of the pilots reported they saw someone peeing and fishing at the same time. What talent! I can’t tell how deep the water is because sometimes I see people up to their knees (wearing what look like boxers), and other times it’s simply a hat or a head sticking out of the water.

There are a lot of lakes around the city and there’s almost always someone fishing. I have passed a few people as they walk from the water to their house (sometimes only 12 feet away), and it amazes me that they deem the fish on their lines worth saving. All that I have seen are no more than 5 inches long and 2 inches across. It’s humbling when compared to the food we eat (and throw away) back home.

Something that puzzles me about the fishermen is that many of them will be seen standing on something several feet, more than jumping distance, off the edge of the water (the lakes don’t really have shores). I wonder how they get there and what exactly it is they are standing on. Their reels are spools about the size of a salad plate, open in the middle, held in their left hand, and operated by quickly rotating the wrist and hand – almost like repeatedly throwing a Frisbee. They do it with such ease.

Another of our group saw what looked like a cone hat floating on the water. They watched for a few minutes and saw it was a lady who was collecting something with her feet off the bottom of the lake. If she liked what she brought up it was thrown into a nearby basket.

This brings me back to the food here.

I don’t know how this is a successful method of business, but when you walk through the streets, particularly in the Old Quarter or Downtown area, it’s common to see many of the same type of store on one street. Six stores just selling belts. Entire streets of shoe stores – many with the same exact shoes. This also happens with food. The other night Jonathan and I walked about 30 minutes from the Old Quarter to our hotel. We passed many places that seemed to only have bowls of snails on the tables. The snails are about the size of a nickel and have dark brown shells. I wonder if this is what the lady was collecting off the bottom of the lake.

Bun cha

This morning we had our first good rain storm in Hanoi. This resulted in (surprisingly) the first truly cool breeze we have felt since we arrived. I’ve come to accept that clothes can only be worn once – and maybe not even for a whole day. I may seem like a spoiled American to change clothes so frequently, but I am of a much sweatier genetic make up than the locals.

In spite of the heat, we have been out on foot every day since we arrived. Our first day, we woke up around 9am. We missed the breakfast at the hotel so we followed the map they gave us the night before and headed over to the GO. We wanted to see the headquarters, meet the people who were already here working, and hopefully join them for lunch.

The GO is on the third floor of a high-rise that seems to pop up out of nowhere. It is hemmed in on either side by open air restaurants and cafes. It is impossible to walk side by side because there either aren’t any sidewalks or they are covered with goods and motorbikes. The streets are narrow and every time two cars pass each other I stop to see if it’s actually going to happen.

We arrived, dripping with sweat, and found our way up to the Air Mekong offices. They share a floor with the company that is the main investor in the airline. Our timing was perfect and after a tour we walked next door for lunch. The guys that have been here for a while have established that both surrounding restaurants are good and safe to eat at, so they refer to them, ingeniously, as Right and Left. Today we went Left.

There were 7 or 8 of us and we chose between bun cha and a combination rice, vegetable and meat plate. Those of us who wanted bun cha were instructed to just go to our tables and since downstairs was full we went up to an open room with two rows of plastic tables and stools. They were so low that it was difficult to sit on them and be modest in a skirt. They aren’t reclining on the floor Japanese or Middle Eastern style low. They are eating at the kiddie table low. From what I’ve seen in China, Thailand, and now here, this is common in this part of the world. It seems to me that Asians were born squatting on their heels so it is normal for them to sit on a little stool 9 inches off the ground.

Back to lunch. On each table was a container with chopsticks, napkins, hot sauce, and spoons. Those who had bun cha sat across from each other and they brought us first a dinner plate of rice noodles and a basket or bowl of greens. I’m pretty sure they are lettuce (looks kind of like Bibb to me), cilantro, mint, bean sprouts, and basil. Some of the greenery is a bit hard to manage in a small bowl since it’s a whole spring of it (the side of your hand). There is one that is purple as well but I don’t know what it is.

Next they bring you a bowl, the size of a regular soup or cereal bowl back home, with broth, grilled, minced pork, sliced carrots and some kind of sliced white vegetable. I’ve read that it’s anything from unripe papaya to radishes. It’s fairly mild and is more filler in my opinion. The last item is a small bowl of diced, raw garlic and diced chili peppers. You put as much as fits in your bowl and dig in. As you eat it you gradually add more noodles and greenery. It’s delightful, and I’ve had it for lunch at least 3 days that I’ve been here. I’ve heard it’s more of a northern food, but I’m hoping we can still find it once we’re in Ho Chi Minh City.

Our meals were 20,000 VND/$1 for the bun cha and either 25,000 VND/$1.28 or 35,000 VND/$1.79 for the plate depending on whether you got one meat or two.

After lunch we went Right for coffee. We had café sua da, which is iced, milky coffee. It comes in a glass with a couple cubes of ice (ice is safe as long as it has a hole in it which indicates it’s been filtered and mass produced and not shaved off a block in the back room), about half an inch of condensed milk in the bottom, and a tall spoon. I’m trying to put my finger on the flavor in the coffee here. Jonathan says it tastes like Nestle with a punch. I think it’s pretty good for $.50.

Home sweet home in Hanoi

As long as I have been an airport regular I’ve had a thing for the baby blue Korean Air 747. 747s are impressive enough as it is –four engines, a wing span that dwarfs runways, and body so mighty that lifting off the ground seems unimaginable. Add a paint job the color of the Georgia autumn sky and I’m in love.

Imagine my delight when I found out I’d be flying partway to Vietnam on this wonderful beast.

After one last trip to the Model Bakery in St. Helena, we boarded on Tuesday afternoon and settled in for a long flight. The first few hours passed easily just by watching the flight attendants and having a meal. We definitely weren’t in the United States of equal opportunity hiring anymore. Every flight attendant is fairly attractive, of equal and minute proportions, and acts like each passenger is a guest in their living room. From the time we got on the plane until we landed in Seoul their uniforms were clean and wrinkle-free, hair smooth, and make-up perfect.

I would never make it as a flight attendant for them.

Our meal choices were beef or bibimap. I chose bibimap and the flight attendant asked me if knew how to eat it. I did not (and neither did the Chinese lady next to me) so she handed us an instruction sheet. It was a bowl with little piles of spinach, zucchini, mushrooms, bean sprouts, and two other unidentified things. There was a separate packet of cooked rice that you put on top of that, followed by hot chili sauce and sesame oil. Mix it all together and you have a pretty tasty meal. There was almost a cup of seaweed soup (a la cup o’ noodles). After the flight attendant handed over your tray she peeled the foil lid off and poured hot water in from a kettle. I can’t imagine doing that for 350 people.

After about four hours of sleep for me and four movies for Jonathan we made it to Seoul. The airport is clean, busy, and huge. By then neither of us really cared and we hazed our way through stopping only for a required cup of Starbucks coffee (almost $3.00) for Jonathan.

I barely remember the flight to Hanoi. It was mostly a game of keeping my head from falling forward while I slept. I ate something but couldn’t tell you what it was.

Arrival in Hanoi was easy. We got our visas with only minor confusion and were collected by our chief pilot and several of the other pilots who have been here for a few weeks. Thankfully all of our bags showed up and we headed off to the Thang Loi Hotel in Tay Ho.

We were braced for the heat and humidity – even at 10pm – but completely unprepared for the journey to the hotel. I don’t know if I will ever attempt to drive or ride a motorbike here. Everything moves at an even pace, everyone uses their horns constantly (more often just to say ‘hey, I’m here’), and no one stays in their lane. I felt like we were always about to run over someone or collide with another vehicle. It’s insane. It took about 40 minutes to get to the hotel, and when we pulled into the road (the hotel is on a peninsula of sorts) there were still people everywhere including a man operating a backhoe.

The hotel is a sprawling complex on West Lake. The doors open to an inner hallway that isn’t climatized and have balconies that overlook the lake. The rooms have the kind of system where your room key goes in the slot and activates the electricity in the room. This means, when no one is in the room the air is off. When we got there we cranked the air down, took some ambien to make sure we didn’t wake up in a few hours, and went to sleep. The beds also only have a sheet on them, so I woke up a few hours later huddled in a ball, shivering. The same thing happened to me every night on my trip to Thailand, so you’d think I would have learned, but I guess not. We’ve now learned to cheat the system and put something into the card slot so the air stays at a constant temperature (wasteful Americans, I’m sure).

We’ve also learned to cheat the internet here so we can access facebook, but I still can’t figure out how to get on blogspot (these are all posted by emailing them to Jamie.) There isn’t wireless in the rooms, but the wired internet is pretty good. The hotel staff treat us well, and we have a great breakfast every morning. We have a decent selection of channels, though the tv has only been on once or twice. The bed is a king, which I love, but it feels like they forgot to put the mattress on top of the box springs.

Welcome to Asia.

Golf balls and refugees

It’s Friday afternoon in Hanoi. I hear the crack of a club on a ball as men drive golf balls off the two-story range adjacent to our hotel room. The balls go out across the water of West Lake, and I have to wonder how the fisherman, up to his thighs in the lake, doesn’t ever get hit. As the men stand around waiting to hit they all stretch. Hands on the hips twisting seems to be a favorite. At the pool they are also always stretching. Arms behind. Then legs high out in front. Interesting.

It’s almost 5pm and the sky is already getting dim.

Jonathan and I have spent the afternoon reading, emailing, and trying to stay awake. I just made some Starbucks instant coffee (thank you, Peter.) Hopefully it helps. For some reason it was easy to stay awake yesterday. Maybe because we slept until nine in the morning. Maybe because it was our first day, and we were excited. Maybe because we weren’t sitting in our room.

I’m almost finished with my second book about Vietnam. The first one was a novel about three generations of Vietnamese women starting with a paddle girl on a jungle river and ending with a lawyer in New York City. This one is a memoir by a Viet-Kieu (a Vietnamese living abroad) about my age who rides his bicycle from San Francisco to Washington, through Japan, and then all through Vietnam. Both of these people escaped Vietnam during the 1970s. I’m beginning to get a perspective on the war, something I was previously clueless about, and the general history of this country.

On Saturday before I left my mother took me to meet a Vietnamese acquaintance of hers. She runs a nail shop out of her home so I made an appointment to get my toes done and ask her questions. I was fascinated to hear that she was one of the boat people who escaped (with 13 family members.) She sat there scrubbing my feet and explaining how they rode for ten days on what sounded like an 8’x25’ boat with 57 other people to get to Malaysia. She said only one time did a storm come up that made them think they would get flipped over by the waves. They were bailing by hand, but the storm only lasted 30 minutes. Only!

They ended up in a refugee camp for a year before the United States called them. She said you had to apply at each country you wanted to go to. They wanted to go to Australia because they already had family there, but they were rejected because their group was too big. Then they applied at the US. Her father then persuaded their five cousins to apply separately so their group would be smaller. While waiting for Australia the US called them and they had to go because to turn a country down was too risky. A week after they left Australia called them.

I ended up with pink toenails and a heightened respect and admiration for her and Vietnamese people like her who have suffered and struggle so much. It’s hard for someone like me, whose only knowledge of war is thousands of miles away in someone else’s land, to comprehend the loss and hardship these people have suffered.

And so it begins...

The journey west to the east has begun. Our first stop is San Francisco for an almost 48 hour visit with Jonathan’s family and friends. We’re also hoping that the three-hour time change will help ease the pain of the total eleven-hour change.

The last few days have been a haze of last minute purchases, returns, doctor’s appointments, endless phone calls, trips to the storage unit, and packing.

We managed to cram all of our things into a 10’x10’ storage unit and four huge duffel bags. I don’t think there really is a sensible way to pack this much stuff. You can’t separate the clothes by bags because then we could end up with all pants and no shirts. You can’t put all the toiletries in one place because they need padding and are too heavy. I just hope once we get to Vietnam and start to unpack, it’s all there.

I’ve never been to the regular Delta check-in since I have never flown on a confirmed Delta ticket. I felt like a fish out of water. Can’t even flash a crew badge anymore. I am officially a regular person. Jonathan had to sweet talk the agent into not charging us for our four fifty-ish pound bags. Angela and Trish both came to the airport to see us off since we were unable to meet earlier in the week. It was sad saying goodbye to them and my family. I’m not used to leaving for this long.

The flight was uneventful. It was wide open – as probably are all flights where you actually buy a ticket instead of flying standby. The flight attendant generously brought me wine from first class. As with the ticket agent, I just think they feel sorry for us since we’re moving to Vietnam.

Jonathan’s dad met us at the airport in San Francisco (there wasn’t room in the car for us, our bags, and any one else), and we headed up through Napa Valley to Angwin, his hometown. On the drive I started thinking how dry the air was. My skin felt rough and my lips were cracking. I almost let that thought become a complaint until I realized how I’d be longing for dry air within 72 hours.

The ultimate freedom leg

The changes continue this week as we moved out of the apartment and I am about to do my last trip as a flight attendant (I had to quit since I couldn't get a leave of absence.) Both are welcome changes, though without a bit of nostalgia.

We dropped two huge and two regular duffel bags full of clothes, books, and shoes at the Roberts' residence yesterday afternoon. We are now officially homeless. It's kind of fun. I was ready to move out of that place. The apartment was ridiculously dusty (in spite of dusting and vacuuming) so living there sometimes felt like living with my head inside of a pillow. I was also getting tired of sharing the one un-packed bowl with Jonathan. Makes eating together very difficult, and having company impossible (or we would just make them starve - sorry Jamie.)

Yesterday I did a round trip to Moline, IL and then came back for the overnight. Coming out here for my last trip is good and bad. I have been tired of this job for a while. Tired of apologizing for things that aren't my fault - wind, rain (I'm not God), maintenance, ATC delays. Tired of not having control over my life. Tired of having to choose between work and Jonathan, my family, and friends. But flying out to the midwest reminded of the thing that I have always enjoyed about the job - serving genuinely nice people who are pleasant and appreciative. I flew 1900 miles yesterday without a single negative word. I even got a "job well done" certificate. Flying with a great crew and being early all day does cut down on the negativity, but the people out here are just nice.

Now, as I wait to go to the airport and head home, I am trying to navigate the world of purchased airline tickets. I'm hoping someone at Korean Air will have mercy on me and switch my flight so I can spend the 13hr flight from SFO-ICN with Jonathan instead of by myself on a different plane. We'll see.

Deep-sea diving for rookies

The other night Jonathan, Jamie, and I went to a Vietnamese restaurant here in Atlanta. It's called Pho #1. I've had pho once before while visiting Christine in Concord, but knowing you'll be in the land of pho in less than two weeks makes you pay a little bit more attention.

As we sat there and tried to understand the waiter, tried to figure out what all the greenery they brought us was and whether we were supposed to eat all of it (is mint a garnish in pho or part of the soup?) I began to feel like someone who had just signed up for a deep-sea expedition and never been deeper than their knees in water. The person on the space ship to the moon who has never been on a plane. Unprepared. Nervous. Overwhelmed.

Then today, as I sat in Taco Bell (I don't think they have it in Vietnam) reading my newly acquired Vietnamese phrasebook, the feeling returned. How can there be six meanings for one word, only differentiated by the tonality of the word? I'm going to be ordering someone's grandmother served with a side of apartment.

I have been having a lot of weird dreams lately. This is due partially to the madness of my life - which includes a terrible diet and odd hours - and partially to my dna. As I drifted between sleep and wakefulness on Saturday morning I thought "I had the strangest dream that I was moving to Vietnam - and who moves to Vietnam??" The thought startled me completely awake and I realized it was true. Jonathan and I move to Vietnam.

In spite of my trepidation I am happy about it. I don't think I will really be able to be excited until we have moved out of this apartment, I have flown my last trip, and we have said our last sad goodbyes. Once again, there is no adventure without pain.