When in Rome

Our four-day weekend in Rome gave us just enough time to visit (almost) everything we wanted without exhausting ourselves. As required, we began with the Forum and Colosseum, making our way through cobbled and claustrophobic side streets. They can be dank, but venture down as many as you can: though the main streets are beautiful, it is along the alleyways that the hills rise and fall and the quiet buildings like adobe seem to press together. They explain the popularity of motorbikes, one of which nearly took out my roommate because the crosswalks are inconsistent and the bikes speed by much more quickly than four-wheels. I believe the only casualty was a cell phone.

When I saw the Colosseum I thought of the awe that it (and any ruins) inspires, because it appeals to our nostalgia, to our inability to preserve or traverse time. It is history, a link to the world historical figures and gladiators and common (but ancient) folk who walked these halls millennia ago. But it is deflating to think that a used napkin, too, is a link to Jennifer Lopez, and what is the difference in paying for that versus paying to look at a spoon that a Roman ruler once used?

The Colosseum has traveled through time where we can't, and after years of ravaging it is understandably worn out. That it's less perfect, though, doesn't make it any less appealing to tourists; on the contrary, it's why people buy antique chairs with the front rung carved away by resting feet. It's more authentic. Amazing how much of the structure can be saved. And amazing how selective we are in how we save anything. I stood alone for an hour on top of the Pincian Hill (one of the best views of the entire city), looking down onto the Piazza del Popolo, but not without graffiti along a railing to obstruct the view. Beyond the question of whether graffiti is art, should the city wash away the spray paint? It probably hasn't done so yet because of the time and money required, but if we don't rebuild the broken walls of the Colosseum, maybe we shouldn't erase the work of street artists: both record history and act as commentary on the times that produced them.

I don't subscribe to that idea so much as mull over it, but one idea beyond contemplation is the indignity and disgrace of cities and other authorities that construct attractions explicitly for visitors. Near Popolo is Villa Borghese, and leading into the park is a porta flanked by sphinx-like sculptures. It is not just poor taste, it is disingenuous. Like the flashy nativity scenes, one inside left of St. Peter's Basilica, another in the piazza outside.

Time for class, I will get around to more on Rome later and try to preach less.

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Reading: Camus, The Stranger
Listening to: Killers, "Why Do I Keep Counting"

Out of wonderland

If I were to make a diagram of my experiences in Vietnam, there would be one branch for things that turned out as expected – generally, goods are cheaper than in America, journalism is more submissive, and fashion is equally mixed. There would be a branch for things that surprised me, either because they differ so much from America (take off your shoes when entering a shop), or because we’re not so different after all (is there anywhere the income gap isn’t a problem?).

Of things that aren’t so different, I don’t know if my biggest discovery would disappoint or delight, but it is this: many of the pleasures of visiting another culture (language, food, customs) were, in this case, already available to me in America. I spoke Vietnamese at home, of course, but also in the Vietnamese stronghold of South Sacramento, people generally don’t need English to conduct business, read the paper, or just carry on with daily life. In South Sacramento and at home, I have also eaten most of the same cuisine I’ve had in Vietnam – mi xao, banh xeo, bun bo hue, etc. I noticed this because people here constantly asked me during meals whether the food was OK, and I’d constantly explain that yes, we have all of this in America. That might be the reason I haven’t gotten food poisoning. Unfortunately, that also means it was hard to try new foods (plus I’m not brave enough to try snake).

Many of the local customs, like eating on the floor or lighting incense for the deceased, were already a part of my life, thanks to my parents. They also decorated our house with cultural ornaments, from paintings to statues to fans, which made it very difficult to buy souvenirs here, as most of the useless knick-knacks I came across are available in South Sacramento.

So I would call this discovery disappointing because it sort of defeats the purpose of coming here – emphasis on “sort of” because the country still holds enough of a unique lifestyle, history, and development for a good old-fashioned culture shock. But for tourists who can’t afford to come here, this could be a delight because all they have to do is spend some time in the Vietnamese community in their own towns. For America the implications are both good (as Viet Kieu add diversity to the country) and bad (as they insulate themselves from mainstream America).

(Aside: as I’m writing this, two chickens have just wandered into my room.)

Between the expected and the unexpected, there’s a third branch in my diagram. I noticed it in my first week in Saigon, when it came time to do laundry. The vast majority of people hand wash and hang dry their clothes, which makes perfect sense. It’s not as if I expected people to have washing machines, but I also hadn’t thought about the fact that my clothes, too, must be hand washed. So there are things that aren’t surprising, but that you don’t think about until their time comes.

And the time has come to say goodbye. Although I knew I would have to leave Vietnam, it hadn’t occurred to me that I would be leaving its people and traditions and way of life. Of course there’s plenty I won’t miss. I can’t wait to get away from Mr. Mosquito, away from the smog and the two types of weather, heat or rain. I won’t have to barter with merchants anymore, and they won’t follow me around every inch of their stores, trying to convince me to buy things I don’t want. I won’t be solicited on the street by errant peddlers who can’t possibly make a living with what they’re selling, or by poor children selling lottery tickets when they should be in school.

Usually I don’t miss anything or anyone because I know I’ll see them again. So the exceptions are things and people gone forever, separated either by time (hence my debilitating nostalgia) or, as I see now, distance. I still have a few hours until my flight back to America, but already I am missing this bustling city. I’ll miss the wind rushing past as I sit on the back of a motorbike. I’ll miss seeing a movie for $2 or staying in a beachfront hotel for $12. I’ll miss always having someone to tell me how to say or spell a word in Vietnamese. I’ll miss being called “Lien oi” and “Lien Lien” and “em.” And I’ll miss the people calling me by those names, people with whom I’ve spent almost every day for the past two months, people who hadn’t factored into the equation when I first planned my trip but who now sum up the entire summer. But I’m wrong about one thing: they’re not all gone forever because there’s no question that I’ll be back.

Here comes the rain again

I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the solar eclipse on Friday, but it was clouded by a thunderstorm that came and went throughout the weekend. By no means was the storm record-breaking, but it was the first time I saw the streets really flooded on the way home. That makes travel especially difficult for people on motorbikes, not just because they have to drive through oversized puddles, but because they have to set foot in them whenever stopped at an intersection.

Small shops are flooded relatively easily, which I think has something to do with the way they're constructed: most don't have traditional doors, but an opening where the front wall would be (think shoebox) and a gate - some like garages, others like the springy argyle pattern of doors on old elevators. So on the way home I saw people scooping up buckets of water from their stores and dumping them out on the street. Yesterday, people were doing something similar at the flea market. The one I visited was lucky to have one big roof, but rainwater was funneled through pipes that stretched from the roof to spots throughout the market, so women were using big bowls to catch the runoff from the spouts.

This morning I remembered to grab my poncho, just in case. The skies aren't looking good.

Pain at the [Vietnamese] pump

With the government subsidies and average income level, I figured gas prices had to be cheaper here than in America, but at 15,000 dong per liter ($3.50 a gallon), it was about the same. People just get more out of their money because they drive the relatively efficient motorbikes and manuals.

But over the past few days, while on my meta vacation to central Vietnam (more on that in the coming posts), I started hearing about gas prices going up. "Interesting," I thought last night as I sat in the plane from Danang to Saigon, listening to my cousin read the day's top story and recalling the surfeit of similar media coverage in America. Here the prices just jumped 30 percent to almost 20,000 dong per liter.

It got even more interesting after we touched down and tried to find a taxi home. The first driver was ready to take us, until a woman with a clipboard ushered a larger party into the cab. The next driver wouldn't take us because our house was too close. Every driver after that wanted to charge 150 percent more than we'd paid last week to get to the airport. I didn't get it. Why didn't they just take us home and let the meter run as usual?

I discovered the drivers were negotiating a fee beforehand because their companies hadn't raised fares to match the rise in gas prices yet. For once I felt as sympathetic with them as I do with xe om drivers; still, there's a big difference between 30 percent and 150 percent, so I opted for a xe om, the driver somehow speeding through the streets with my suitcase held awkwardly in front of him.

Just along for the ride

Just as Michael Scott ‘loved’ the New York subway, I like the motorbikes (xe may) in Saigon because they take to people of all walks of life – or rather, all types of people take to them. On the street, I pass by motorists in pajamas, jeans, slacks, dresses, business suits, and ao dai. I admit the image is comical; I’m reminded of the days of old when scooters were popular in America, as was footage of businessmen scooting to work. But I doubt anyone cares about that here since few can afford the four-wheel alternative.

Another image that comes to mind: China in 2003. But instead of protection from SARS, Vietnamese drivers wear face masks as shields against the dust and smog. I’ve been fine without the coverings, and actually I wonder why more motorists don’t wear eye protection, which in my experience would have been more useful against the pollution. It’s also common for women drivers to wear arm-length gloves as protection from the sun. I’d like to think they want to guard against cancer or the heat, but no, women just hate getting dark.

Still, everyone’s a slave to the elements. When it rains, out come the ponchos. There are even ponchos made for two, I guess to make it easier to transport another person on the xe may. But even after the rain subsides, beware: a motorist sped through a puddle next to me two nights ago, leaving most of the puddle on my right half.

Whatever the weather, heat is a concern. As if the humidity and triple digit temperatures weren’t enough, the main source of heat is your xe may and those around you. Vehicles anywhere can get oppressively hot, of course, but it’s much more noticeable when you’re waiting at a light, wedged in the middle of a pack of xe may without car doors to keep out the heat of other engines. Then again, whether in motion or stopped at a light, you’re conveniently close enough to hold a conversation with your friend on the xe may next to you.

I have to say the worst thing about xe may, or any vehicle in the city, is the never-ending beeping. I thought Times Square was bad, but drivers here seem obsessed with honking at other people. They beep when the light changes. They beep at pedestrians. They beep whenever they exhale. It makes me wonder, what would they do if someone just did away with all the horns?

Reaching the other side of the world, and the other side of the road

Getting sick, lost, pickpocketed – I came here worried about all the risks I assume are present in most developing countries. But getting run over by a motorbike seems uniquely more probable in Vietnam and, if I can mean this without over-dramatizing a legitimate concern, it was one of my more persistent fears.

Fittingly, among the first sights I encountered was the ordered chaos of the streets. Without lines to distinguish between lanes, motorists seem to feel their way through the streets, the deft weaving deliberately between other vehicles, the rest bottle-necking at popular intersections. Now the question is, how did the chicken cross the road?

I received mixed advice about this beforehand, but the best has been: just go. On the wider, busier streets, pedestrians can certainly wait at traffic lights, which motorists heed almost without fail. But that’s not an option on the smaller roads, and locals don’t make much use of crosswalks, anyway. Luckily, pedestrians have a couple of advantages: first, the motorbikes rarely exceed 20 miles an hour, so you can get pretty close before they’ll actually hit you; second, the motorbikes approach in jagged clusters, and because they’re small, you can pass one or two at a time until you get to the other side.

In general, the vehicles will slow down for you, but I don’t depend on that because accidents are a real danger. As if to confirm that, two motorbikes collided next to my hotel within a few days of my arrival. I turned around just in time to see people collecting around the scene and to notice the chair flung from the sidewalk into the street. Everyone was fine, but when we got home, a news report on TV announced how many people had been killed in car accidents that day, and my cousin said yes, that’s normal.

All of this probably isn’t doing much to dampen the stereotype of Asian drivers. But the truth is, it wasn’t long before I came to value the ability required to operate a vehicle in this environment. I thought I could never drive in a place like Los Angeles or New York (still true), but Vietnam is a whole other ballgame. The locals didn’t invent the system, they just adapt to it. There are few places to make U-turns, so you do it where you can, and other cars fall in line. Street signs are scarce and obscure, so people rely on the lettering above shops, almost all of which include full addresses. The roads are overcrowded, paved unpredictably, and fraught with endless construction, and to maneuver them so naturally takes, I think, appreciable skill.