So——

Admittedly I’ve neglected this blog.

But–by God, I’m going to modify my delinquent behavior.  I must motivate myself to maintain this commitment.  In other words, I need to get my ass in gear and write.  Whatever happened to my admonition to students to write no matter what—even if what one produced was shit?  Yeah, yeah, I fell off the wagon en route to writerly success—got dropped in a ditch alongside the road to blogosphere bliss.

But—enough about what I’ve not done, and more about what has happened in the last several weeks. 

In short——–

Sara and I returned to Ho Chi Minh City after Habitat Vietnam’s staff and model build, moved 20 suitcases of stuff to Hanoi—another 30 hour trip by train, located and moved into a charming, French colonially inspired house near West Lake.  But after a mere two days in our new home, I returned to the US for a less than two week “opportunity” to check on our Lexington house and the pets we had left there. 

In equally brief terms——–

Let me mention——

The hell that I found there—

An infernal flea infestation and equally hellacious and nauseating odor that turned out to be hard wood floors having absorbed several month’s worth of cat urine—the urine of not just one or two feline friends, but four—four cats whose bladders and kidneys seemed to have worked well in our absence—tragically for all noses exposed to the foul stench.  Clearly, litter boxes were not kept clean—four 20 pound jugs of Tidy Cat were left unopened and unused.  Eleven days worth of scrubbing did not remove the stench.  The floors are ruined—will, at the very least, need to be sanded and refinished, if not totally replaced. 

I won’t mention———-

The rug that Sara had brought back from Turkey—left out on the back porch for weeks, if not months—mud and grass stained.  Probably the most valuable single item in the house, the only possession Sara actually adores—probably destroyed.

I won’t mention———-

That our dog Ralph was so infested with fleas, he had lost massive amounts of hair, was heart-brokenly depressed and alarmingly cowering in response to abrupt movement.  I was sickened.  I wanted to vomit.  I wanted to scream.  I wanted to kill.  God help the person who hurt and frightened him—god help whoever you turn out to be.

But all is much better now—

In brief—————-

I had to find homes for our four cats, which thanks to amazing friends I was able to do in a matter of days.  I had to bring Ralph with me back to Vietnam, where he is this moment asleep on the couch next to his canine “sister”—Lucy.  He is playing again and seemingly happy—seemingly content to be back with his family, wherever on the globe we happen to be.

I won’t mention (at this point)——–

Our agonizing journey to get here—stuck in Seoul—overnight in the airport, Ralph in a crate, me wheeling him on a luggage cart—no place to pee—no food to eat—nowhere to sleep.  That’s a separate story—more than I can manage to include here. 

Suffice it to say, that we are all well. 

Suffice it to say———

That Sara and I have celebrated our third anniversary in a part of world I’ve come to love—a place I never expected to live. But we are building a wonderful life here in Hanoi—amid much that is “other” to us—strange but lovely—Hanoi with its winding narrow streets, trees, lakes—

All I imagined Vietnam would be—

Magical, enchanting–take-your-breath away with wonder and grace——with a conical hat kind of peace—pointed and narrow at one end but broad and open at the other.

Early morning fitness efforts in Vietnam seem to involve excessive amount of arm swinging, the rotation of both arms at once from the shoulder, large circular motions.  This may be good for the heart, the circulatory system, the flexibility of the shoulder socket, at the very least.  However, it does little for Lucy, who aggressively barks at the alARMing movement, sharing her apparent displeasure.  Thus, I take Lucy outside for potty purposes, before there’s any chance the neighbors have taken to the streets, wind-milling their way to healthy hearts.

So, I just checked my FaceBook inbox, where I had received a message from a friend regarding my blatant lack of discipline when it comes to writing regularly—recording accounts of my many misadventures in Asia, tales of Lucy’s love for beach romping and train riding, stories of Sara’s work with Habitat for Humanity Vietnam and the Carter Work Project.  The thing is——Jean is right.  I am failing miserably in this regard and simply must bully (if need be) my writer self into writerly action.  So here goes—————-

Regarding the journey by train between Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City, let me assure you, if you have done it once, you don’t need to do it again.   Although the trip takes 30 hours, it is probably worth undertaking on one occasion, so you can see the changing landscape along the length of the country.  And frankly some of the scenery between Da Nang and Hue is stunning.  The tracks run along cliffs which tower over the sea on one side and are dwarfed by mountains on the other.  I don’t think you can see the coast from this perspective by any other means.

However, now that I’ve traveled both directions between Saigon and Hanoi, I’m not inclined to do it a third time, if I can avoid it.  Several reasons———  First, rail travel in Vietnam allows for little privacy and literally no security for your luggage, unless you purchase all four berths in a compartment and bring along a friend who can stay in your space and guard your belongings if you need to use the restroom or take a trip to the dining car.  The compartments do not lock from the outside, and the Vietnamese will welcome the opportunity to move into your space, if you leave it vacant for even a moment or two. 

When friends warned us about this, we, as westerners, found it hard to imagine.  Sara, at least, disregarded this information completely when we stopped briefly in Hue.  I exited the train to take Lucy “potty,” reminding Sara to stay in the compartment.  However, while walking the platform a moment later, I saw Sara behind me.  Panicked, I handed Lucy’s leash off to Sara, RAN for the train, and literally fought my way through the throng to our compartment, where, in a matter of two or three minutes of our being away, two people had moved in with their three suitcases and one over-sized box,  the box encased completely in tape, like a skin.  The box wielding pair did not want to leave!  They were most unhappy.  We clearly had extra room, and that surplus might as well be theirs—no notion of privacy, no notion of personal space!  Gesturing intently toward the empty bunks, arms flailing (they spoke no English;  I spoke just as little Vietnamese) one of the would-be squatters communicated his squatterly intention.  There was nothing for me to do but raise my voice, gesture with equal intent toward the door, stand my ground, quite literally, and indicate my land-lordly ruling on the matter.  Feud ended.

Why else might you not want to travel by train more than once along this route?  The compartments are far from clean, the food is frighteningly impossible to identify, and your space will be shared with roaches and other six-legged creatures  scurrying across the floor and along the wall—no matter your belief in the virtue of personal space—space that is spotless and insect free.

Gosh, Jean, I hope you are happy.  Any and all Skype scolding of this writer in training not necessary!

Why does writing seem like such work! I have not blogged in over a month, and now I actually dread the prospect of sitting and typing my way toward even a paragraph—at the moment, I deplore the thought of generating text. It feels like such drudgery! The past few weeks are a jumble in my brain. I don’t feel like sorting out the details—Hanoi, Staff Build, Hai Lang Bay, train ride to Saigon, this week. Too much has happened.

At any rate, Hanoi was everything I had imagined Vietnam to be and more—winding, circuitous streets of the Old Quarter, peaceful parks along West Lake and Hoan Kiem, French colonial architecture, the guts of the city spilling out onto noisy, narrow alley ways. Hanoi marries the past with the present, the ugly with the elegant. There the Vietnam I had hoped to find actually exists.

We’ve been in Hanoi for nearly a week and are finally settling in—at least for now.  During our first  night in the city, we stayed in a lovely hotel overlooking the West Lake—a restful and relaxing way to recover from the from the train ride north, the movement of which rocked Sara and Kathryn to sleep two nights in a row but, for the most part, kept me wide awake.  The bottom line remains that I can rest few places besides my own bed—no plane, train, or automobile slumber for this insomniac, even with Ambien to supposedly assist in that process.

Tuesday we moved to this apartment, also overlooking West Lake—two bed rooms, two baths, stainless steel appliances, large, flat panel television, beautiful hardwood floors, and stunning views of Hanoi and West Lake from the roof deck.  Most days I’ve spent in the apartment, as the weather has been suffocatingly hot, humid, and rainy, and the neighborhood over-run with unleashed dogs and diseased-looking chickens.

We have eaten breakfast twice at the Sofitel Plaza Hotel, as well as dinner there Friday night, while waiting for Kathryn’s friend to come in from Cambodia for the weekend.  Yesterday we shopped in the Old Quarter and ate breakfast this morning at the famous Metropole Hotel, finally giving due diligence to our role as tourists—one we’ve long neglected since arriving in Vietnam.

However, Lucy continues to turn heads and charm expats and locals alike.  This morning at the Metropole, she sat at the table with the rest of us, and the Vietnamese wait staff wanted to serve her a bowl of milk.  We kindly declined the offer, as Lucy has never consumed dairy, though we did purchase her what must be the smallest conical hat in all of Southeast Asia, one she’s been wearing for much of the evening, posing for photos.  It would seem milliners of peasant head gear here have gone to the dogs!  Hats off to Hanoi!

I have been enjoying the most amazing of tropical fruits—not just the mango, which I adore and is available in the US—but also others to which I had never been exposed before visiting Southeast Asia.

During my first month in Vietnam, I tasted the rambutan—which I’d describe as a fuzzy, strawberry-looking fruit—red leathery skin with soft spines, small oval shape, the size of a large seeded grape.  The fruit inside is white, nearly translucent, sweet and slightly acidic—quite tasty.

Also in the last week, I’ve purchased mangosteen from a woman who operates a fruit stand at the end of our block.  These, I must admit, are the most amazingly succulent fruit I have ever tasted.  With a deep purple peel and large leathery leaves on top, the white pulp separates like segments of an orange and nearly dissolves into a nectar-like liquid in the mouth, undoubtedly divine.

So, Sara, who should be pleased by my consumption of something other than bread, has been in Hanoi for more than a week, leaving  Lucy and I l alone in Saigon to deal with my neighbor’s funeral music. 

It all began in the early evening on Friday with what I thought was a band, one I assumed must have been playing at the micro-brewery beside my apartment.  Mind you, I had never before heard music from this establishment or been bothered by any noise from the place that remains open long after I go to bed.  But when the music began again the following morning around 7, I realized it could not be coming from my suspected source. 

Later that morning when I was finally able to communicate my question through a primitive form of sign language I use with my non-English speaking cleaning lady, the explanation came in two words, “Dead man.” 

But———–when the music continued incessantly on Sunday and resumed Monday morning  just after four—well before sunrise, I thought, “Dead man, indeed.”  I felt badly for my grieving neighbors—but good-god—I was becoming increasingly irritated by the clamor and close to homicidal in my mission to make it stop.  Fortunately, as my nephew Johnny rightly pointed out, Monday indeed became “the day the music died.”

I had to leave Lucy alone in the apartment for the first time this week.  For the first seven days back in Vietnam, I have taken her with me everywhere, unless I was able to leave her with Sara, which I did, once to eat lunch with Mai Anh and Elizabeth and three times to work out at the gym.  Besides those four brief situations, we had not been apart—until two days ago!

More specifically, I took Lucy to the gym with me for the first time Tuesday, since Sara is in Hanoi.  However, within minutes I was asked to leave, to take Lucy back to my apartment, as dogs are not allowed there.  This posed a problem, since Sara and I had been disinclined to leave her alone—fearful she would cry and/or bark and, in turn, bother the neighbors—our landlady being foremost among them.

During my initial attempt to leave her, she whimpered and wailed, wailed and whined, whined and whimpered some more.  A few minutes later I left her again, this time shutting her in our bedroom, so her moaning would not echo in the building’s back stairway.  This time I was not able to hear her, when I went downstairs and stepped outside, so I proceeded to the gym, where I agonized with each minute of the following 45 I spent on the stair-stepper.

Clearly, the problem here is not Lucy’s, but mine.  I’m the one afraid to leave her, and certainly my fear supersedes her own separation anxiety.

Again—what’s a dog-loving, gym-going American to do?  Mind you, I was told by more than one of Sara’s staff that dog-napping is a money-making crime common in Vietnam.  Someone steals a dog, then forces the owner to pay a ransom to get the dog returned.  It happened to Minh and her friend, whose dog was actually snatched from inside her apartment.  And one wonders why I might be a wee bit cautious, a tad overly anxious, a smidgen, perhaps, even more than a smidgen, fearful and disturbed.

At any rate, Lucy was unharmed and no worse for the wear when I got home.  Thanks to the gods that watch over small canines and keep Vietnamese dog-nappers away.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but for some reason all I want to do is sleep.  Sometimes this might suggest depression, but I don’t feel the least bit sad or lonely.  The question then remains whether or not this could be the residual effect of jet lag an entire week following my flight or an indication that I have not yet adjusted to the time change, again, with my having been in this part of the world for nearly seven days.  I don’t know.

Also significant could be the fact that Sara has left for a week and a half in Hanoi.  However, my sleep patterns were well under way before Sara’s departure. 

The bottom line—I have no idea why I’m so exhausted.

(Sorry to bore you with so much “naval gazing.”)

At any rate, yesterday Lucy and I went to the market near the office in an effort to explore and locate hooks we can attach to the backs of doors without damaging the doors themselves—something that hangs over the top of the door—a system that seems fairly common in the US but is nowhere to be found here.  Sara seems to think I have too many “bags”—purses, book bags, laptop cases, messenger bags, and shoulder-strapped water bottle holders.  Okay, okay, now that I make this list, I realize she may have a point.  However, what bothers Sara most is not my having the bags but more our not having a place to store them.  She seems to think a system of hooks might remedy the problem by giving me a place to hang and hide my stuff.  This clearly lends whole new meaning to the notion of bringing “baggage” into a relationship—poor Sara!

More interestingly, the sidewalks in that part of district one were so swarming with motor bikes yesterday, it proved nearly impossible to get to the market without taking extreme precaution.  As it was, I slipped and fell from trying to walk on the edge of the sidewalk and stepping into the street from time to time, as there was no other way forward.  Clearly, the pedestrian does not have the right of way in Vietnam, even on the sidewalks themselves!

I have finally found grass—no, not that kind of grass—the kind that Lucy will use for excremental purposes.  The 3 x 4 foot patch around a tree, around the corner from our apartment, does not require the effort it takes to walk to the park every time Lucy needs to pee—a park where I was reprimanded for allowing Lucy on the lawn.

We’re not walking to the park, but we are walking—a lot!  Exploring the city on foot has proven the best approach to seeing people and places from street level—the grit and grime of it—the hurry-scurry, fast-paced, motor biking energy that is Asia on steroids.

We’ve walked in search of grass, and also cinnamon, which we have yet to find.  Where do they keep the sugar and spice and everything nice in this city called Saigon?  Who would have thought that cinnamon could be hard to come by?  We won’t be snicker-doodled, pumpkin-pied or oatmeal-cookied into obesity and diabetes in this town.

Oh, well, enough of this for now.  Gotta go take Lucy to her patch of grass.  Sorry for the shitty post.  I’ll do better next time.