Christmas Questions

I found a list of questions about personal holiday traditions and I tackled this in this post. So, here's a little about me and my Christmas practices.

What is your favorite Christmas film?

I actually have several favorites and it is difficult to pick just one. Here are the first few I thought of.

The Ref

(1994) - A cat burglar is forced to take a bickering, dysfunctional family hostage on Christmas Eve.

Gremlins

(1984) - A boy inadvertently breaks three important rules concerning his new pet and unleashes a horde of malevolently mischievous monsters on a small town. 

Die Hard

(1998) - An NYPD officer tries to save his wife and several others taken hostage by German terrorists during a Christmas party at the Nakatomi Plaza in Los Angeles.

Rare Exports

(2010) - In the depths of the Korvatunturi mountains, 486 meters deep, lies the closest ever guarded secret of Christmas. The time has come to dig it up. This Christmas, everyone will believe in Santa Claus.

A Christmas Story

(1983) - In the 1940s, a young boy named Ralphie attempts to convince his parents, his teacher and Santa that a Red Ryder BB gun really is the perfect Christmas gift.

Trading Places
(1983) - A snobbish investor and a wily street con artist find their positions reversed as part of a bet by two callous millionaires.

Scrooged

(1988) - A selfish, cynical television executive is haunted by three spirits bearing lessons on Christmas Eve.

Have you ever had a white Christmas? 
I grew up in the Midwest so I've had plenty of white Christmases. (minus the cocaine)
And, yes, Christmases is the proper plural for Christmas.
I offer Bing Crosby's words as proof.

Suck it, grammar nazis!

Where do you usually spend your Holiday?
This will be my fourth consecutive Christmas outside of the US. I am not only out of my home country, but I've been in countries (China/Vietnam) where they don't even recognize Christmas. So, not only do I not go anywhere, I usually have to work.

What is your favorite Christmas song?
Carol of the Bells
Anything played by Trans-Siberian Orchestra

Do you open any presents on Christmas Eve? 
We tried a couple of different traditions when I was a child. We eventually settled on Christmas Eve presents AND we always saved one to be opened the day after Christmas. I don't remember why. Today, we don't exchange gifts.

Can you name all of Santa’s reindeer?
At one time I could and might still be able to, but since most of them never bothered to learn my name, I just don't care anymore.

What holiday traditions are you looking forward to the most this year?
We don't really have any traditions. My wife and I only spent one Christmas in the States after we got married. Since then, we have been outside the country. We are away from family. We have no children around and it is typically a workday. We try to get out for a nice meal, but that's about it.

Is your Christmas tree real or fake?
I grew up with a fake tree, so the idea of bringing a real tree into the house was totally foreign to me. As an adult, I learned that we only used a fake tree because it was discovered that my younger brother Kyle was allergic to the real tree.

As an adult, once I got divorced I discovered that my kids weren't really interested in the tree, so I haven't had one since. That was over ten years ago. I will probably never have a tree again.

What is your all-time favorite holiday food/sweet treat?
Reindeer Testicles

Be honest:  Do you like giving gifts or receiving gifts better?
Honestly, I hate both. I find the exchanging of gifts extremely uncomfortable. I refuse to participate in Secret Santa activities any place I work and only begrudgingly do it at family events. I don't know why I am this way, but I am.

What is the best Christmas gift you have ever received?
When I was in high school, my parents got me a stereo. I didn't even know I wanted one until I opened it. It was great. It is probably the gift I got the most use out of.

What would be your dream place to visit for the Holiday season?
I have no idea. I hate cold weather, so no traditional places. I already live on a tropical beach, so no point in aiming for something like that. So…I guess I'll go with the Moonlite Bunny Ranch.

Are you a pro present wrapper? Or do you fail miserably?
I rarely give gifts (see above answer), but on the rare occasion that I do, you'll be lucky if I even take it out of the shopping bag.

Most memorable holiday moment?
Every year brings to mind the time I wandered into the kitchen hours after the big family meal and found a plate on the counter already loaded with turkey, mashed potatoes and dressing. I didn't know who's it was, but I tossed it in the microwave for a moment and snuck off to enjoy it without getting busted by whoever prepared it. I learned later that it was food which had been scraped off people's plates and was about to go out to the dogs.

What made you realize the truth about Santa?
My brain. I'm not stupid.

Do you make New Year’s resolutions?  Do you stick to them?
I made resolutions when I was younger, but I do not anymore. I haven't made any in years. I learned long ago that it is a waste of time. Change happens when you really decide to make the change and dedicate yourself to it. Not because the calendar changed.

What do you wish for Christmas this year?
I feel like I have a pretty good life. My wish is that it would continue.

What makes the Holidays special for you?
There is a lot of assumption built into this question. The holidays are not special to me. I have nothing against them (other than having to hear Christmas music for three months straight), but they are not special. I enjoy seeing my family, but I enjoy that any time. Holidays or not.

Favorite Christmas smell
My favorite smells would be mostly nostalgic. The smells of my mother baking Christmas cookies and making mint chocolate. The smell of a fireplace or wood-burning stove. The morning of the family get-together and the house smelling of all the food that is being prepared.

What is the worst/weirdest gift you have ever received?
The weirdest was given to me by my sister-in-law. Christmas morning, she handed me a very cold gift. I opened to discover an 8-pack of Klondike bars. She laughed as I opened it and said, "You know. Because of that joke you said."  Neither my wife nor I had any idea what she was talking about.

The worst (not that bad, really) came from an aunt. My mother's side of the family was much further away than my father's. We didn't make it to see them every year, but when we did her sister always made sure she got us a gift. It was the same thing every time we came. A Matchbox car. At 17 years old, I still got a new Matchbox car. It was sweet that she bought us anything. I am not complaining. I guess that since they did not see us very often, it was forgotten how old we had gotten.

Favorite Holiday drink?
I discovered egg nog a few years ago. Don't know why it took me so long to try it. I love it. Spike it with cinnamon and bourbon to make it even better.

Have you ever spent Christmas in another country?
Ha! Yes.
Puerto Rico in 2001 (not really another country, but felt like it)
I spent two in China.
This will be my second Christmas in Vietnam.

What place/landmark in your town do you love to visit during Christmas?
I honestly don't have a place I like to visit other than my family's house. When I was a kid, several of us would go to my great-aunt's house down the road to go sledding because she had a huge hill in her front yard.

Were you naughty or nice this year? 
That really depends on who you ask.

Do you own/wear a Christmas themed jumper or T-Shirt?
No. The closest I have come to Christmas themed clothes was a tie that had the manger on it. I wore it to church one year, but it is long gone.

You Get a Vial & You Get a Vial & You Get a Vial

Red and I have been married a little over five years and things have been great. We really were made for each other. Despite having moved about a dozen times around three different countries in the short time we have been together, the worst stress we've encountered was when our bedtime routines happened to coincide and I started brushing my teeth a few moments after Red had started.

After a few brief flirtatious smiles in the mirror back and forth, the reality of what was happening came crashing down on us. The unspoken words were instantaneously birthed and started frantically flitting about the tiled room:

"Who's going to brush the longest?"
"Who cares about their dental health more?" 
"First one to stop is disgusting and does not deserve love." 

Today, we won't even enter the same bathroom at the same time. And that works for us.

Despite those occasional moments of crazy, our interactions are typically far from problematic. We work very well together. And we understand each other.

Well…most of the time.

Today, due to a problem we are having with our passports, Red casually mentions, "Well, maybe our new passports not showing up is just God taking care of us because I'm going to be dead in a few days."

Red generally leans toward believing she is currently living her last week on earth. She hasn't been right a single time, but I know she will rub it in my face the first week she is.

Since this is typical of many conversations in our house, I simply replied, "That would be nice to keep us from wasting that money."

This slowly morphed into a conversation about what to do if one of us did kick the bucket. And living in a foreign country, there is much to consider.

• Does the body get shipped back to the States? 
• Is there a need to fly home for some sort of service or does the surviving spouse just make a phone call to their in-laws to give the news?
• If I do have to send my wife's body back, should I pay for the exorbitant shipping or could I just buy an extra seat on the plane and lug her around myself? 
•  Could I get away with folding her in half into a large suitcase and save the extra seat fee?

This all led to the conversation about how my wife wants to be cremated anyway. So, if I could get that done here before heading to America (or shipping her), the cost consideration completely changes. However, for the first time, I started to consider what I would do with her remains after she's been Thanosed into powder.

Do not read anything into this, but I would not be keeping the ashes or displaying them anywhere in the house. This has nothing to do with how I feel about my wife. It is just not me. I also would not have an internment somewhere to be able to go visit and Red's only wishes are that they should go to whoever might want them. This made me realize something I had never considered. Ashes are not like a whole body. There is no law that says they all have to go to one place. They can be split up and sent to as many different places as you want.

OK. Who wanted the dark meat?

This means that anyone who wants a piece can have one. I got online to see how much ash a human body produces and found a formula that told me that my wife would break down into a little over half a gallon of ash. Specifically, between 10 and 11 cups. You can find anything on the internet.

This means I could send a cup to each of her four siblings, a double portion to her parents and still have over four cups left to sprinkle a little into my pancake mix each morning.

Or…I could separate them into much smaller portions and place them in decorative vials to be worn as pendants or carried in the pocket. And before you think this is strange, there is already a market for this.

Click here to buy these in a variety of styles

Little birdseed packets are often handed to people as they exit a wedding to throw at the happy new couple as they leave the service. These Red ash-filled vials could be handed to the visitors as they leave the funeral. The main difference is these can be thrown at anyone since the person of honor will not be making an appearance.

Or…I could sell and ship them to her hundreds of cousins. (She has a very fertile family.) I could even start various bidding wars for family members to prove how much they loved her. The more they're willing to pay, the more Red's memory is honored.

I think I'm onto something. I'm going to start a GoFundMe page to get money for vials.

On the Road Again

There is a very common stereotype that Asian people cannot drive. And like many stereotypes, it did come from somewhere. Now that I have lived in a couple of Asian countries for the last few years, I am beginning to understand where it comes from.

It is not true at all that Asian people cannot drive. In fact, they are excellent drivers. However, if you get even a glimpse into the world in which they have to drive in their home countries, you can quickly understand why they drive radically different than the people in the Western world.

The attitude on the roads here in Vietnam can only be described as “different than America” or possibly “predictable chaos”. I have found the Vietnamese people to be friendly, selfless and humble, but as soon as they get onto the roads that all seems to go out of the window. It’s every man for himself here. If you leave a gap at a traffic light of a couple of feet or so, you can expect somebody to pull in diagonally in front of you. If you aren't already moving two seconds before the lights go green, people will get angry. If you are crossing the road at a crosswalk, people will not stop. You will be beeped at, swerved around, wheel clipped, shunted and stressed out at every given opportunity. But you have to get out there if you expect to cross.

This is not a joke.

This really is how it works

Move forward at a steady predictable pace.
And NEVER stop or step backward.

Traffic lights are a guideline. I am told that they are new here although I cannot find the facts as to when they were first introduced to back this up. What I can say is that they are few and far between for a city the size of Da Nang (1.1 million) or Hội An (150,000 and less than a dozen traffic lights or stop signs). It’s a normal thing for people to run red lights. Quite often people will start aggressively beeping horns at you if you have the audacity to stop at a red and block their way. At many junctions, it is a free-for-all, with the Vietnamese drivers having perfected the art of not slowing down. You would be amazed at just how last second people can leave the intersection to avoid an obstacle. Razor-thin margins of close calls are expected every time we venture out of our house.

Hesitation will get you killed

Define for me who has the right-of-way here

Lanes? What lanes?

So, if you grew up in this chaos and were then dropped on the streets of America, your driving may seem quite erratic to the people around you.

Despite this rectum-clenching scenario I just described, I am very excited about the events of this week.

I got my driver's license.
Sort of.

This is a license to drive a car. I have no use for this. I drive a motorbike (illegally for the last year--SHHHHH!). But it was the first step in the long process of getting a motorbike license. Similar to how you have to buy the farmer a couple of beers before he'll let you kiss his cows.

First, I had to get my American driver's license converted to a Vietnamese license. This involved a trip to a government office in Tam Ky. Then a couple of weeks later, I had to travel to Da Nang to get a medical check-up. I talked to over a dozen different doctors about my medical history, my family, my purpose in Vietnam, my job, my intentions on staying and my ranking of bún chả, mì quảng, and phở noodles. I was weighed, poked, monitored, blood pressured, blood was drawn and I was drug tested, urine tested, and questioned endlessly.

Tiniest urine sample vial I've ever used.
LESSON LEARNED: My penile aim is impeccable.
I got a tight stream, yo.

After three hours of grunting at Vietnamese doctors, I got my paperwork proving I was healthy enough to drive a motorbike in Vietnam. Or even on one of the moons of Jupiter.

It says it on there somewhere.
Just trust me. Shut up.

After all that, it was just a matter of passing the driving test. And this is where it got difficult.

Now, I know how to ride a bike. I've been doing it for over a year in all this chaos. Illegally, but still. In the States, I rode a Harley.

Much more machine than the toys they have here.

I am not in the least concerned about my ability to handle the motorbikes of Vietnam. However, I was quite concerned about the test. For several reasons:

• They provide the bike which is made for tiny Asian people (not 6'3" Americans)
• Every bike has little idiosyncracies (tricky clutch, varying brake strength, touchy accelerator, etc), but you are not allowed to practice with the bike they give you. Get on and go.
• You must wear their helmet. It did not fit on my head.
• Most people (73%) fail.
• My knees hit the handlebars.
• My big feet kept triggering the foot brake.

These are just some of the problems I encountered when I went to the practice lot. There is a place in Da Nang that has all the markings on the ground for people to go practice. You go to a bike rental shop and rent a bike like the ones used for testing and go practice. This was how I learned that I hated the bikes we would have to use. But I practiced for hours anyway. I felt ridiculous and told my wife there was no way I would pass this test.

Two days ago, we went to the testing facility. This place is only open once a month. If someone fails, they have to wait a month before coming back again. They test for everything in that one day.

Behind the facility for big trucks, buses and cars.

We were taken in the back to tackle some treacherous stairs to the bike testing place.

If you are handicapped, you must be confused
about needing a license.

The testing site was rigged with ground sensors. If you touched the line, the system knew it.

An instructor (with a translator) walked us through the course. First was the figure 8, then a straight section followed by a zig-zag and ending with a heavily speed-bumped area. Just stay within the lines. We start with 100 points. Every violation deducts 5 points and we needed 80 to pass. This means we were allowed only 4 or less. Side note: If you put your foot down once, you fail.

One of the other Americans testing with me asked, "If we go outside the barrier, the tire hits that cord twice. Once going out and once coming back. Does that count as one or two violations?"

The instructor looked sternly at him, "Why do you ask this?

"I just want to know how many marks that will be against me."

The instructor turned away shaking his head and yelled, "Stupid question. Does not matter. Do your best. You either pass or you do not. Let's start."

We all looked at each other. No more questions I guess.

The first of my friends to try was a South African man and he was pulled off the track before he did one circuit on the figure 8. Done. Failed before he even hardly got started.

The next was a 60 y/o man from Idaho. He pulled a perfect score. So, it could be done. I was assigned my bike and did a quick circle in the parking lot while being yelled at by the instructors. I just wanted to get a quick feel for the bike. My legs were splayed straight out to prevent hitting the handlebars. I pointed my feet out to keep them away from the brakes and I noticed the gas caused the bike to jump when the transmission finally caught.

I started into the 8 knowing that I better keep a steady speed because moving the accelerator would have unpredicable results. I hit two violations within seconds of entering, but managed the rest of the course with only one more. I finished with an 85. I passed!

I still am not a legal driver until the license is in my hand. I am supposed to receive it on October 31.

No more running from the cops. I've had to do that a couple of times in the last year. YAY me!

I'm ready to be legal. I'm looking forward to not having to hide in the small town we live in. We will actually be able to get out and drive without having to worry. It's time to see the rest of Vietnam.

End of Summer

All this week, my Facebook Memories have been reminding me that Red and I left the States three years ago this week. It has been fun seeing our adventures of navigating our new life in Beijing flashing across my screen each morning.

This was a big day for me.

In only five years of marriage, Red and I have changed jobs over a dozen times, visited nine different countries and lived in three of them. When we moved to Vietnam, we didn't even have jobs lined up. We just hopped on a plane confident that "we'll figure it out when we get there."

Even watching us from far, people should pretty easily be able to observe that neither Red nor I are scared of change. We definitely have things that concern us, but walking into the unknown is not one of them. And when you choose to live in another culture, that is a valuable quality to possess. An adventure into the unknown is thrown at us almost every time we step out of our house. It takes a long time to learn all the intricacies of another culture. We have learned that we must be extremely flexible and just go along with almost any mystery, confusion or change that is thrown at us.

I am experiencing a bit of change in my home right now. Summer has come to an end. As a teacher, this carries special significance. All the kids are headed back to school. However, this affects me in a different way than traditional teachers.

In this part of the world, kids go to school for much longer hours than in Western countries. And for most of these kids, even when they are not in school, they are still taking supplementary classes, extra lessons, tutoring appointments, advanced skills training, and many more things. 

When I was teaching in the classroom in Beijing, on Monday mornings I would often ask the students what they did over the weekend. I eventually stopped asking that question because the answer was always the same.

"On Saturday, I had an English class, a math class, and piano lesson. Then after lunch, I had another math class, a swimming class, and a calligraphy class. Then I did homework until I went to bed. On Sunday, I got up early to do homework until my school placement tutor came at ten. Then after lunch, I had my piano recital, Chinese class, and culture class."

These kids also have similar stories about what they do after school each day. It is almost always more classes and doing homework. I feel so sorry for them. The classes and stress never stop. It is work work work all the time.

Now, I am one of the teachers that many of these kids meet with after school and on weekends. I no longer work in the school system. I provide them with part of their supplemental English education. I spend months getting to know the kids and their learning patterns, how to get them to respond, how to draw them out and how to best teach them. Every lesson is individualized for that student. And a couple of times a year, it all changes.

Because I am an extra teacher in their already cramped schedule, things could change at any time. If a parent decides their kid needs to take another math class, they have to find a way to fit it into their schedule. So, occasionally, one of my students disappears. Although, I never know why. It could be a scheduling conflict or they feel like they have met the objective they were trying to achieve through classes with me. It could be because they don't like my style and sought out another teacher. Either way, I am never told. They just disappear one day. It's sometimes sad when a student I have really grown to enjoy falls off my schedule. There is never even an opportunity to say goodbye.

This month is one of the times when things really get shaken up. I may not be a school teacher, but the school schedule does affect me. I can only teach classes in the evenings and on the weekends because that is when the kids are free to take extra classes. And this month all the kids returned to school from their summer break. This means, their summer schedule has been disrupted and everything has to be redone to accommodate the new school year. New classes and teachers mean new challenges that must be met by their extra classes. This means every family re-assesses their educational needs. So, even though I do not work in a school, the lives of every one of my students are in transition. This means massive rescheduling happens. 

Almost overnight, half of my students are gone and replaced with new ones. I get new students all the time, but it is generally one here and there. In the fall, I get a bunch at once. And the ones I have grown to love over the last year are just gone with no notice. No one ever says, "This will be our last class together." They just disappear.

I know regular school teachers get new students every year, but on the last day of school each year, they know their students are moving on. They can say goodbye and are mentally prepared for it. When I get a new student, I don't know if they will be a part of my life for the next three weeks or the next three years. And I won't know until they disappear. It sucks.

Some kids, I am happy to see fall off my schedule, but there a few I genuinely miss and want to be able to follow up and see where their lives take them. But I'm getting used to it. I love my job and would not want to do anything else.

Well, if I have to work.

---

Today's post was inspired by the writing prompt, "It was the end of summer."

Jumbo Prawns, Buffalo & Beer

Last month, Red and I discovered that we would not be able to renew the lease in our house. Our landlords told us they loved us and would like us to stay, but the rent would be going up 25% because of the pool being built.

Now, we would have never taken advantage of that pool, but other tenants might and would be willing to pay for it. So, we opted to move out and find another place. The next day, we found a beautiful home in a very quiet neighborhood. We have been here a month now and absolutely love it.

Large open floor plan

Huge skylight in the dining area

 

Creepy painting over television

We love this house.

We are the same distance from the market as before, but now we are on the other side. We live on a tiny side street, so there is ZERO traffic. This means there is no noise from cars. Just the occasional motorbike. It is so quiet here.

An extra perk we did not expect is our new landlords who live right next door to us. Mom and Dad. We have no idea what their names are, but that is how they asked to be addressed. Neither speaks a word of English, but they just may be the most accommodating people on the planet.

Many times, in the evening, one of them has brought over a silver tray filled with food they made. We never recognize the contents and they can't speak English, so we never know what we are eating. But we do know, it is amazing every time.

Last week, we were invited to their house for a party. We did not know what to expect with this, but we knew there would be food. That's usually all it takes to get me somewhere.

We walked in to find about 40 people (all Vietnamese, we were the only foreigners) already seated at tables piled with food. There were a few more dishes to be brought out and the feasting would begin. We were shown to a table and sat down. None of the people at the table spoke any English, but (despite being guests themselves) immediately set glasses in front of us and filled them with beer.

Noodle dishes, vegetables, fish cake, big plate of squid.
I love the food here.

Soon the invisible cue to start happened and everyone dug in. Except for the old woman sitting next to Red. This woman served everything on the table directly to Red's plate. She pointed out the different sauces to use with which food and then watched as Red sampled each bite. Sometimes Red would try to put something to her lips and the woman would stop her, sprinkle some multi-colored powder on the food and then gesture to eat it. It was fun to watch.

As the food on the plates began to be sucked down my gullet disappear, more food was brought out.

This was the good stuff. Fried prawns, baby water buffalo, duck.
Pork, whole crab, more squid.
We have the meats.

It was great. I stuffed myself and then drank way too much because every local wanted to come over and share a toast with the Americans. And there were a lot of toasts.

I had a glass of beer with every individual here.

As the crowd started to disperse, we got to talk with the landlord's daughter. She speaks decent English. She explained what this party was for.

When we first moved to Vietnam, we learned that there is little significance put on birthdays. In fact, most of the people of the older generations don't even know when their birthdays are or what their actual age is. However, the anniversary of someone's death is commemmorated. This party was to honor the deaths of our landlord's grandparents. This party happens every year.

She informed us that her parents host three "death day" parties annually. This one was the smallest of the three. The big one, to honor our landlord's parents, usually has over 200 people in attendance. Since they died more recently, more people knew them. Thus, the higher numbers.

I better get to work building my alcohol tolerance.

We Call Them Melons In America

A few days ago, I was practicing my typical morning routine of sitting on the toilet with my phone catching up on the news. In the middle of reading the latest on Black Ariel and the Blue Bell Ice Cream Licker, I got a message from my wife.

I immediately knew who she was talking about. We've been dealing with this guy for the last few days. Right next door to us, a construction crew has been putting up a new building and we share a gate with that property. So, we cross paths with the workers daily. Every now and then, one of them comes to us to use our electricity or inform us of excess noise that day or the shutting off of our water. It is always a difficult conversation since we do not speak the local language and have to do everything through inadequate translation apps.

However, this particular guy is especially "friendly." He frequently wanders over to make small talk when he sees me outside. This usually involves lots of hand gestures and pointing at the construction site with a big smile. I never know what he is trying to convey, but it seems like it is not pertinent information. Just friendly banter. Until he stepped up his game a few days ago.

He sat on our porch one day, so I grabbed a Pepsi and my phone and went to join him. I like to be friendly most of the time. Through our translation apps, we tried to talk to each other. After a couple of minutes, he asked to borrow my motorcycle. I made an excuse about how we were about to leave so it wouldn't be available. So, he asked to use it at lunch the next day. As I was telling him no, I started closing up the house so Red and I could leave. He then asked me how I secure my doors when I leave.

What kind of creepy question is that?

This made me nervous because he basically lives right next to us until the house is built. They always know when we are coming and going. And now he wants to know how well I lock my doors.

Due to my inability to effectively communicate all we can really do is try to be aware.

Not being able to communicate has been a common theme in my life. When I lived in Puerto Rico twenty years ago, I saw a sign on a counter that said CUIDADO: CALIENTE.

This sign made no sense to me. CITY: HOT
What?

I leaned closer to contemplate the meaning and it occurred to me as soon as my arms contacted the metal counter. Cuidado does not mean 'city.' It means 'CAUTION.'

The Spanish word for 'city' is ciudad. They may look similar, but the meaning is quite different.

As I rubbed the aloe on my forearms, I knew I would never forget those words again.

Living in Beijing, I almost did not get my work permit due to a communication error. I was asked to send off for my official Master's Degree for the paperwork that had to be filed. They told me that it must be sealed when we turn it into authorities. I did as they asked and it arrived two weeks later. I handed the envelope to my boss and she immediately ripped it open. I yelled, "NO! It has to still be sealed when we give it to them." She gave me a confused look as I sat and put my face in my hands. I had dropped a significant amount of money to get this and have it specially shipped. She had just ruined it.

She looked the degree over and asked, "Where is the seal?"

After a frustrating back-and-forth, I learned when they told me it must be sealed, what they meant was it must have the official State of Illinois International Authentication Seal. This seal is what proves to foreign governments that this is an official document.

She thought she had communicated clearly and I thought that I had understood. We were both wrong.

I have hundreds of stories like this, but let's come back to the present.

That 'creepy little dude' is now talking to my wife when I am not present and chooses to comment on her 'grapes.' If you have met my wife then you are probably aware that she is quite gifted in the area under her shirt. And in a culture that is known for not possessing those assets, it is even more apparent. But that does not mean he needs to be commenting on her grapes.

I head downstairs to confront this man and in my head I am running how I should play this. Should I be firm or gentle? Should I confront him in front of the other workers (to help keep him on their side of the wall) or take him to the side in private? I don't want to create too big of an incident. We do have to live among these people and we are the foreigners.

We may be the foreigners here but this cannot be allowed to happen?

I get downstairs to discover that is has escalated to the point that another worker is now involved and talking to my wife in the doorway. I start to step in to put an end to this harassment and I hear her telling the new man (who speaks a little English), he said: "Chau grapes are very big." Everyone (including my wife) laughed.

What is happening?

It turns out the 'creepy little dude' was wanting to plug into our electricity because the work site was having some work done and would be without power for a few hours. He wasn't being inappropriate at all. The Google Translate app just sucks when dealing with Vietnamese.

I even learned the reason he was asking about how I secured my doors a few days earlier was because our water pump was being replaced. When he discovered we were leaving for the evening, he was wondering how they were going to test the pressure once the new one was installed. There was no ill intent. We just don't have the ability to fully communicate. The extra speculation and guesswork about intent was misguided…again.

I have been putting off receiving official language instruction, but I believe it may be time to change my stance.

Hồ Chí Minh Heat

A little over a year ago, Red and I left China and moved to Vietnam. We have been in Hội An since August.

I've written several times about how much better life is here than Beijing. The cost of living is significantly lower. We have cleaner air, live on the coast, people are friendlier, food is fantastic, and (my favorite) it never gets cold.

The winters in Beijing are brutal and when you have to walk everywhere because you don't have a car you have to be very careful not to trip and scratch someone else's car with your nipples.

There is, however, a downside to living in a place where it never gets cold. The summers are on the extreme opposite of the spectrum.

It is so incredibly hot. All the time. Even the nighttime does not give much relief. Sitting in my living room at midnight watching Netflix requires several fans pointed right at me and I will still leave a sweat stain on the couch.

For ten months of the year, it is great to know that you can step outside 24 hours a day completely naked and be perfectly comfortable until the police show up. But in June and July, the sun will fry your dingus off before the police even get their first call.

The sun is the scariest part. It isn't just the heat. The sun is much stronger here. Being so close to the equator greatly increases not only the heat but exposure to the rays of the sun. Hội An, Vietnam is 1,570 miles further south than St. Louis, MO (close to where I grew up). I can feel the UV hit my bone marrow as soon as I step out of the shadows.

Plus, due to my arthritis, I am on a medication that makes me more susceptible to the sun. My doctor told me to avoid direct sunlight. And then I moved to the tropics. Yay, me.

To combat this, every morning I drink a liter of SPF 450-infused tea.

To avoid the heat and the sun in June and July (the worst months), we try to run any errands that need done (groceries, bills, etc) before 8 a.m. and spend the rest of the day at home. Under fans. Due to the architecture here, houses are not air-conditioned. A few individual rooms are, but the common areas are not. And can't be. The space is too open.  This means cooking a meal is quite a treat since we shed our clothes before we start. We just try not to sweat into the food.

We are now reaching the end of June, so we are about halfway through the hottest part of the year. One more month and the temperature will be under 100 again. Not by much, but those few degrees make a big difference.

Chinese Kidnapping

Red and I have stated many times that we are much happier in Vietnam than we ever were in China. But we have been gone long enough that we often forget how awful some of it was.

This morning, I stumbled upon on old Twitter thread where I live-tweeted the time I thought I was being kidnapped. It all came back to me. One of the most confusing moments I had while living in Beijing.

I'm in a school van in Beijing going to a federal office to finalize my work visa and the van just stopped in the middle of a 3-lane road

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) April 2, 2017

The school where I worked had put me in a van to be taken to the Entry-Exit Bureau to get my papers completed. Halfway there, I found myself in the middle of a road rage situation. Remember, I did not speak Chinese and couldn't even communicate with my driver.

A car behind us understandably started blowing his horn for us to move off of this very busy road.

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) April 2, 2017

As has been my experience in most of this part of the world, there is not much accommodation made for other drivers. People stop and sometimes even park right in the middle of busy roads. I didn't know why we had stopped but was very concerned that he had not pulled to the shoulder. We were fully blocking a lane of traffic.

The driver of my van jumped out and started screaming at the driver of the car behind us.

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) April 2, 2017

Why? My driver was clearly in the wrong.

They are standing in the middle of the road (basically an interstate highway) screaming at each other as cars whip by at 80 MPH.

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) April 2, 2017

I was debating whether I would be safer staying in the vehicle or getting out and standing on the shoulder. However, the lack of ability to communicate often made me give people the benefit of the doubt and just go along with whatever was happening.

I don't speak Chinese, so I have no idea what is going on, but now the driver is trying to get me out of the van to join them on the road.

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) April 2, 2017

OK. I guess I am getting out.

Now the driver of the honking car is screaming at me to get into his vehicle and the van driver is encouraging this. Am I being kidnapped?

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) April 2, 2017

They were both ushering me to the second car. "What is happening? Oh, how I wish I could ask some questions!"

OK. So now I'm in a stranger's car going...somewhere? I don't know what's going on. I really need to learn Chinese.

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) April 2, 2017

I probably should have been texting my wife in case she never saw me again or texting my school to ask questions, but all I could think about was "This has the potential to become disastrous. I better keep tweeting so there is a record of the events."

Alright. We're getting off the main road. The rest of today ought to be interesting

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) April 2, 2017

 I just resigned myself to the fact that I was along for the ride now. Come what may.

The shouty driver just dropped me off at the Entry-Exit Bureau. The place I was headed anyway. Angry Chinese drivers are very accommodating.

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) April 2, 2017

Um…thank you. I guess.

So, this case of road rage escalated into him giving me a lift to my destination. Even though I still don't know why.

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) April 2, 2017

I never did learn what that was all about.

At the very least, I have learned that I would be very easy to kidnap.

KIDNAPPER: Get in the car!
ME: Okay.

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) April 2, 2017

Probably something could be learned here. But it's been over two years since this event and I haven't been kidnapped a second time. So, I think I'm good.

My Mind Is Playing Twix On Me

Sometimes, when I sit down to write a blog post, it is not because I have a story that needs to be told. It is because I need to write something to continue my habit of writing every day. This often means that I don't really have anything to say. However, I still need to write something.

So, I use a writing prompt. Today, I am using this one.

This could be interesting because you just might find anything on Twitter. I'm going to pop over to Twitter, refresh my feed and write about whatever post is at the top. Be right back.

---

---

OK. Thanks for waiting. I got caught up in a thread about under-employed transgendered pugs. I had to follow that conversation. Anyway, here is what was at the top of my Twitter feed.

I like the kind of trail mix that comes in a yellow bag and is called peanut M&M's.

— Felicia (@LostFelicia) March 19, 2019

I was able to relate to this tweet immediately due to my current life situation. Living in Asia primarily means not having access to any good candy. The Vietnamese don't eat much chocolate.

To be honest, I am not really much of a sweets person. Growing up, I would happily wave aside the cake or ice cream dessert if it meant I could have more of the main course. A steak or baked potato is better than pie any day.

If I'm going to eat cake, this is my preference.

I am not saying I don't like sweets. I do. I'm just not as drawn to them as other foods. Although, I would grab the occasional candy bar at the grocery store. In the States, my default chocolate choice was usually either a Snickers or a Payday with the occasional Three Musketeers sneaking in now and then. I typically ate one or two candy bars each month. Not counting the candy-centric months surrounding Halloween, Easter or Christmas. Those months don't count. It's everywhere. A person just doesn't have much of a choice.

However, living in Vietnam, there is no choice when it comes to chocolate. If you come across some, you can buy it or don't buy. There is nothing to chose from. I ran down to the local market to take a picture of their sweets selection.

Most of the items on this table are fruit-based. They are sweetened by the natural sugar found in the fruit. But unlike even fruit candies in the States, there is no extra sugar added. So, to someone raised in America, the lack of sweetness is blaring.

The above picture is the closest thing to chocolate they have. It is a small cup with little pee-wee cookies and a goober's worth of white something in the bottom. It comes with a Lilliputian spoon to scoop it out. The 'cookies' have ZERO flavor. Think animal crackers but instead of being in the shape of animals, they are the shape of their droppings.

Little rabbit pellet cookies.

The white stuff is a gooey mess that definitely does not resemble chocolate. This little snack is basically a tiny shot of chunky jizz.

If I want to put in the time and effort to venture into the tourist part of town and spend the time looking for it, I may discover exactly three types of Western candy. I have seen Snickers and both plain and peanut M&Ms.

Though in this tropical heat, chocolate does not typically do very well and the mutilated gooey inside of the wrapper is pretty damning evidence of why chocolate hasn't really caught on here.