Goes on Clear and Doesn't Quit

Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto Part 1: Crew Cut

2008-07-31T20:10:00.000-07:00

Let me start by saying, I was born to dance. Ever since I got my first pair of penny loafers, I have been thrivin’ and jivin’ on every surface I could lay my feet on. They were my second favorite shoes of my childhood, just after my L.A. Gear: L.A. Lights. Using state of the art technology, the L.A. Gear engineers fashioned an impact sensitive LED cartridge for the heel of the sneaker. My momma got me these shoes because she said I was a little “special” and she needed beacons to let other people know. I’m special and I get blinky shoes, sweet deal. I’m also pretty sure L.A. Lights are the kicks that Chris Columbus wore when he schooled Native Americans in an epic b-ball game to claim the New World. In fact as legend has it, they are forged from the tears of Michael Jordan and woven with mystical threads of MC Hammer’s parachute pants. That’s pretty tough competition.

Holy Crap, it’s like you’re walking on UFOs from the 90’s

“You gotta own the Light if you wanna own the Night”

How could this company go out of business?! This is marketing genius! My favorite part is when she sucks at basketball, and the guy knows his gonna get lucky. My second favorite part is the crappy high five at the end, but that doesn't matter because they are so in the moment.

Update: LA Lights now come in Stripper Flavor

Anyway, the penny loafers come in as a close second. Not only did they look awesome but they also had storage space for two shiny pennies aka bling. Sometimes when I wanted to look extra baller, I would put dimes in them…but that was only on special occasions. When I put on my lime green Donald Duck tee shirt (with matching shorts) and slipped on those loafers, you had better watch out because I wasn’t just dancing, I was dancing in style. Here’s a clip of me in my prime:

Note: My stage name was Nathaniel and my loafers were too gangsta to be shown on Nick Jr.

Fast forward a decade and a half

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

So I’m walking around Hanoi with my crew looking to buy a pair of sandals, when we stumble upon a huge building with a large paved pavilion in front of it. There were kids playing soccer, elderly playing badminton, and a faint sound of music enveloping across the scene. After poking around a little, we discover the source of the music was a group of kids break dancing and popping atop the pavilion steps. Now only one thing has changed about my love for dancing: it is now matched with a dangerous taste for showing off. My nerves tickled as I perused the crowd; they were all youngish 14-18 years old, dressed in cool hip-hop attire. My sights were set on their popping leader, a small 14 year old boy dressed in all black…

Probability of embarrassing/hurting self: 80%

Probability that I will suck, but still have my dignity: 19.9%

Probability that I will look awesome and everyone will worship me: 0.1%

Situation Analysis: Sounds like my kind of odds. All systems go,

IT’S DANCE BATTLE TIME!

The music starts and a circle forms. The kid in black starts popping and roboting, and a small chuckle escapes my lips. No sweat.

Probability of just crying when it is my turn: 99.9999%

Probability that I look awesome: 0.0001% in the off chance that peeing my pants looks cool

Updated Analysis: Abort Mission! Abort Mission!

Initiate Operation Save Face!!

I stopped him in the middle of his run and asked how he did some move. I quickly acted like it was all a clear misunderstanding and that I merely wanted to learn the ways of the young master. After some laughs and pictures, I agreed to come the next day to hang out and learn the fundamentals. No one was the wiser, Operation Save Face complete.

The next day, I returned with my language officer codenamed: RoseBuddy. We walked straight to the area where we met the crew the day before, and sat down to watch a kid being videotaped. This kid was the real deal: he was older and more refined, his moves were clean and on beat, he was dressed crazy-funky-cool to accentuate his style, and he was pulling out tricks I have never seen before. He blew the kid in black out of the water. As I sat in awe of this new player, I noticed the crew we were hanging out with yesterday was breaking in the area right next to us. I ran over to greet them and then realized that new kid and old crew were completely separate to the point of rivalry. RoseBuddy and I literally set our stuff directly in the middle of both of them, while I ran back and forth. I asked the crew to show me how to do a break dancing freeze, then I would run to new kid to teach me how to do the snake, then I would run to RoseBuddy to debrief on what I learned. It was beyond awkward, as they began to ask ‘what are you doing over there?’ and ‘so, you like breaking better than popping?’, until they finally started to throw inappropriate hand gestures at each other.

Option A. Loyalty to the breaking/popping crew I met the day before to preserve whatever relationship I could have created in one day.

Option B. Ditching the old crew for the kid that was older, a better dancer, and more styling. Betray what semblance of friendship we had and hang out with the cool kid literally 10 feet away. It would be like flat out telling them that they're just not cool enough.

Option C. Continue to run back and forth until a Westside Story remix breaks out

Hell Yeah, I’m gonna pick the cool kid! Smell you later suckers, you’re old news now. Papa’s got a brand new crew. We finally move our stuff next to the new kid, and hide our faces from the disappointed eyes of the old crew. After some chatting we got invited to meet the rest of the crew the next night at Lenin Statue Park.

To be continued…

Here’s a bonus clip of Michael Jackson using the power of L.A. Gear to break street lights and impress children. Ok I’m done with Michael, I swear.

The Rules of Engagement

2008-07-17T02:26:00.000-07:00

I have had my share of cultural mishaps here in Vietnam, so I have decided to prepare this short guide for anyone who will be doing the DukeEngage program in Vietnam!

Rule #1: Don’t Look and definitely Don’t Touch

Avoid physical contact with the opposite sex by any means possible. An incidental brush on the shoulder could be seriously flirtatious. Even eye contact could be considered a “move,” so you must be careful to not establish any sort of connection. Failure to comply with this rule has once led to the accidental wedding proposal to 7 women in one day, including 2 housekeepers and an old lady selling fruit.

She asked me what I was doing later. I said I’ll be giving time to the elderly, if you know what I mean. She still hasn’t called.

Further disregard for this rule could lead to multiple conversations about your blatant flirtatious behavior, and could even be brought to the coordinator’s attention even though you are clearly uninterested because you already have an amazing girlfriend at home who tries really hard to cook for you even though it usually turns out funky, like the time she tried to make stuffed pancakes which were burned on the outside but were uncooked on the inside which you still ate even though they were like a weird raw batter Gushers. The ensuing notoriety will then lead you to take drastic measures to defuse the situation. This includes freaking out into kung fu stance when an alleged flirtee opens the door rather than her roommate, avoiding all physical human contact for several days, scanning the room to avoid eye contact while speaking to the opposite sex, as well as ineffective attempts to “be cool” (or effective attempts of speaking really quickly while your head is twitching). At worst, everyone thinks you are autistic with Tourette’s; at best, you are just weird so no one is attracted to you anyway.

Rule #2: Don’t Listen

When a loud American professor named Douglas Jardine tries to take you on a tour of Hanoi, it is imperative that you do not listen. It will only inflate his already enormous ego as well as condone his cultural ignorance. He will enter quiet Vietnamese communities and bellow a lecture on how the people are living incorrectly, treating the native onlookers as little more than zoo exhibits. He will then dismiss the idea of learning the Vietnamese language (even though he’s been in Vietnam for 2 years), because immersion and interaction are only secondary to classic academic study. He’s like Al Bundy with a PhD.

The resemblance to Al Bundy is uncanny, except Jardine has that extra angler fish antenna from his forehead poof. Instead of using it to lure fish, he uses it to look obnoxious. Note the disgusted Vietnamese onlookers.

Rule #3: Don’t Smell

The pollution in Hanoi is stifling. When coupled with the high humidity, the air is almost suffocating. In many places, the pollution forms a fascinating potpourri with rank garbage (there are few public trash cans so litter is everywhere, but most garbage on the street is cleaned within a day) and stagnant water (the drainage system here is almost non-existent). You could very easily develop a chronic cough if you ever try to stop smell Hanoi’s air.

Rule #4: Don’t Taste

If you ever find yourself in a BBQ Chicken with a Mexican and a girl, Do Not order the Hot and Spicy Wings (read: Spicy and Extra Spicy Chicken of the Devil). If you do, do not try to eat them while ignoring the pain because you don’t want to lose street cred in front of the Mexican (who happened to eat the same wings without batting an eye). “These aren’t that bad,” you will choke when your stomach is actually melting. Your face will turn red and your eyes will be blood shot, so you casually turn away to hide. The burning will be so severe that pressure will build in your sinuses and your eardrums will pop (this is your brain actually trying to escape the heat). Then the moment your Mexican friend leaves the table to get another drink, you will start crying and whining like a baby. When the Mexican comes back, you will try to hold it together, but the tears and snot won’t stop pouring from your face. At that time, you will abandon your last shred of dignity, as you begin rubbing coleslaw all over your lips to ease the pain. Everyone will then mock your loss of street cred as the girl eats the wings with no effect (In my defense, she probably made a pact with the devil; there is no other explanation). You will then spend the next 24 hours on a toilet experiencing the fires of hell.

Punishment for my sins

After I laid waste

Rule #5: Don’t risk your life throwing shoes to knock down a wasps’ nest inside the guest house, even though they are scary and you are allergic to their stings because apparently, a hive in the house is a sign of good luck.

Really, how are you supposed to know that?

Rule #6: Be Professional

After every one of your senses has been challenged, you will most likely take comfort in your immersion in a culture that is meaningful to you and in the idea that you are making some sort of significant civic difference. The fact is you will be placed in an office setting for almost all of your time where it will seem more like you are building your career rather than helping the local community. Although your work might help the local community, it is very difficult to recognize the benefits of your labor as you sit in front of a computer all day. You will feel as if you are working inside a little Western bubble, as you consider cost analyses and development strategies while examining databases. Two hour class with your Duke compatriots after working 9-5 will further solidify your little bubble inside Vietnam. You are only spending 2 months in Vietnam, and almost all of it will be spent away from the Vietnamese community. Your professionalism will reduce your so called immersion to observation. But hey, that's what is best for your future, right?

I say Tomato, You say Clamato

2008-07-03T23:35:00.000-07:00

Contestant # 1

Manchester United

Contestant #2

Stripey

Contestant #3

The King of Pop with a British Accent and an Afro

Let’s go Stripey, Daddy needs a new Stripey!

I didn’t want Manchester United because that would be greedy, but I didn’t want Afro Michael Jackson because I didn’t Wanna Be Starin’ Somethin’ with a Smooth Criminal who is still In the Closet and makes little kids Beat It. I know I watched Moonwalker everyday when I was five, and I may or may not have dreamed about being saved from mobsters by a giant mecha-Michael who draws his power from shooting stars. But those were crazy times, and I was young and reckless. But man, he could dance…

Stripey was prefect (especially because he didn’t remind me of my confused childhood): conservative yet classy, simple yet chic. Maybe I’m exaggerating, but that striped shirt seemed like a perfect fit. Of course the shirt wouldn’t fit on me, but it looked great on the scrawny Vietnamese kid who wore it. And that kid seemed like a pretty cool roommate. Of course, every guy in the program wanted to room with the kid in the Manchester United jersey; he looked athletic, fun, and friendly. But past experience with random roommate pairings taught me to set my sights lower. I’m not saying that my roommate freshman year was awful, Edgar had his moments. Most notably, I ripped this huge fart when he was asleep, and he exclaimed “Cash that!” without skipping a beat. Or the time he was asleep, and he said “Hey ladies…just uhhh…pull up to the next window….the name’s Edgar!” But I guess it also says something that my favorite memories of him happened while he was unconscious. Oh Edgar, we would have gotten along so well if you were asleep the whole time….except for that night you smelled so bad I had to Febreze your snoring butt so the stank would stop giving me a headache. If you didn’t catch that, Edgar was snoring and his butt was also doing something similar…non stop.

Good times.

Anyway, the moment of truth came: the lame find your assigned roommate icebreaker. I was given the name of my roommate, and by guessing the “bonus facts” of each contestant (from a list of bonus facts) I would gain names until I found my roomate. At first, I played it cool and casually, letting the Vietnamese students come to me. It could have also been that I was too busy thinking “Stripey” to listen to the directions, but either way I had my game face on. Then without warning, Afro Wacko Jacko tried to solicit my “bonus fact,” but I wasn’t giving up that easily. I quickly averted his attention to another DukeEngager while smoothly making my way towards Stripey. I struck my prey!

“Do you study English so much that you speak it in your sleep?”
“Do you want 5 babies?”
“Do you sing opera!?”
“Are you related to Winston Churchill?!?”

A loud huzzah from the other side of the room interrupted my interrogation. Manchester United jersey found his roommate. A swell of despair formed in my tummy. Who was I kidding; of course he was my first choice. Think of all the time we would have spent talking about a professional sport I know almost nothing about. But I would have tried. Just as I was wallowing in self pity, I hear another huzzah.
.
.
.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Stripey… Why?....I’m sorry I thought of being Manchester United jersey’s roommate, I didn’t mean it! He means nothing to me! My stomach dropped to my knees, and my knees dropped to the floor. Stupid huzzah, I hate huzzahs. I don’t even really know what they are, but every time it happens I seem to die a little inside. *sniff* I’m sorry, it’s still hard to talk about it *sniff*.

As despair weighed on my shoulders, I swallowed and turned back to Anglo-Jacko to ask,
“Is your nickname in Korean class mean milk?”

Yes it is and he was my roommate. And eww, I don’t even know how you get a nickname like that. Huzzah.

I quickly regained my composure and began to chat with him. He didn’t seem too bad. He was definitely different and has an odd obsession with the Miss Universe pageant, but that can make things interesting. Just as I was warming up to him, I took his bags and headed up to our room. The honeymoon was over.

He immediately tells me to make my bed, which I hesitantly obliged. Then, he asked me to switch sides of the room so he can have the desk to study. It may sound trivial but I already moved in all of my stuff and was pretty settled. In the end, I accepted that he still had finals and moving my stuff was the right thing to do. Then, he tells me to put my bags away, clean up my nightstand, and even fold my clothes in the dresser. No one even sees that, and there was like 2 shirts unfolded! This foo was tryin’ to moonwalk all over me. Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m messy, but I was keeping it clean to make a good impression. This kid was just imposing his Communist rule on the clueless capitalist intruder. He reminded me of the British TV show Supernanny meets the Iron Curtain.

Here’s a new picture of him:

I added a Commie nanny apron and Miss Universe tiara

That night, he asked if we could listen to some music before going to sleep. Of course I said yes, I mean how bad could it be? The next minute I find myself listening to Mariah Carey’s “Without You” in a pitch black room with a dude that I compare to Michael Jackson meets Joe Stalin. I was scared.

Then, he crossed the line. He set the air conditioner to 30 degrees Celsius (without telling me) because he was too cold. That is 86 degrees Fahrenheit for those of you in the US. I woke up the next morning and had to peel the sheets off my sweat soaked body. I look to the bed beside mine to see the current bane of my existence. My roommate’s upper body appears to be lying peacefully on his back, but his legs were somehow bent at a 90 degree angle at the hips so that his legs were on my bed (the beds are only a few inches apart). He looked as if he was doing a Karate Kid flying kick at me to drive me out of the bed. I left the room and it was indescribably cooler outside even with our “air conditioning.” Touché Tiara Commie Kung Fu Michael, touché.

That night, we decided to eat at the Kaiser Café next door to our guest house. I remained cordial to my roommate despite my unspoken oppression. When my Bratwurst and Wassermelonshaft came out, I decided to release my angst in the form of an artistic demonstration.

A manifestation of my oppression

“The pickles here are so small,” I said to no one in particular.
“Pickle?” asked my roommate, “What is that?”
I pick up the tiny pickle and say, “This thing.”
“Oh really? Could you use it in a sentence?”
So I say, “I’ll give you a whistle if you tickle my pickle.”

Obviously confused, I demonstrated by innocently tickling the pickle while whistling to clarify. Another American explained the finer implications of the statement, and my roommate looked disgusted. Later that evening he asked if I was gay. Tiara, Mariah loving, Nanny Michael Jackson asked if I was gay. I’m pretty sure my masculinity hit an all time low after that. I guess it didn’t help that I sang “Like a Virgin” at karaoke earlier that day while shaking my behind indiscriminately. And it could have been worsened when I introduced him as my boyfriend (instead of roommate) at work, but who’s keeping track of these things. This reminded me of the time I was knitting a scarf (for a girl), and my mom walked in and said “You look like gay” before promptly leaving. What really hurt was that she meant every word; she really thought I looked like gay. I’m still not sure my masculinity has recovered from that one.

Anyway, my roommate’s offence really caught me off guard and made me realize the differences of our cultures. Later that night, he told me my comment could be seriously offensive in Vietnam. I used to believe that I was innately Vietnamese, that the culture was infused in my being. My blatant insensitivity made me rethink my perspective on not only Vietnam’s identity, but my own. I felt a rift forming between me and my “homeland.” Perhaps I was too naïve, too quick to claim a magical essence of Vietnam in my blood that would instantly bond me to my roommate. I realize now, he is different from me, but I guess that’s what makes our relationship, our friendship, special. We draw our strength from our differences, bridging boundaries I didn’t know existed. I say tomato, he says clamato, but I like him all the same. I guess its for the best he turned out to be my roommate. I mean, I still can't recognize Stripey unless he wears a striped shirt, and even then I confuse him with every other Asian wearing stripes.

Before going to sleep that night, we listened to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” and it wasn’t that bad. Not bad at all.

Workers of the Night

2008-06-19T01:07:00.001-07:00

A few words of caution before wandering in Hanoi:

Beware of Workers of the Night

A Documentary about Vietnamese Workers of the Night, titled “Scaremonger”

It is the utmost importance that you remember these words or else it could be fatal. The program coordinators warned us of such beings that lurk in the shadows. These demons could be anyone or anywhere (as long as it is night) and you must be constantly aware of their charms. You could dance with them in a club or have a drink with them in a bar, and have no idea of their true purpose. They use ancient techniques to lure you away from your comrades so that they can take your very essence of life. Once you are fully entranced by their allure, they STRIKE! They Want to Suck your – uhm…they’re prostitutes. And I guess the essence of life they want is the good old VND (it’s not something that makes it burn when you pee, that’s the Viet Nam Dong). But really, who doesn’t want money? It’s not like “workers of the night” have Dong busting out their pockets (unless you’re into that); these are people trying to survive.

On our first day in Hanoi, we were warned to be careful of “workers of the night,” as if the word “prostitute” was taboo. For the sake of propriety, the coordinator made them sound more like scary vampires than people. But the really scary thing is: it makes me wonder what people would consider less human, a vampire or a prostitute.

His Name was Ned, He was my Friend

2008-06-16T22:08:00.000-07:00

I actually saw this thing eat a kitten whole

I guess the best place to start is the beginning…

So I’m butt naked in the shower, right after arriving in Hanoi and a cockroach the size of a Vietnamese woman (the average female height is 4’ 11” here) scurries from behind the toilet and on to my foot. Wait a second, I’m going to back it up a little more.

After arriving in LAX, my fellow DukeEngagers and I find out that the landing gear on our scheduled plane was not functioning properly. A few grumpy attendants later, we find out that we have to exit security, eat dinner (vouchers = $ka-ching$), and re-enter the terminal. After running around trying to find out what to do and finally doing it, I believe my stankometer was at 20% (compiled from data on sweat and various unpleasant factors). It didn’t help that I had too much wasabi or that I was kind of sweating because I had no idea what we were supposed to do. On a different note, I got a $15 voucher and ordered a meal worth $14.99 without calculating. I rock.

We soon learned that we would have to take a flight to Seoul and then they would “take care of us.” My stank rose to 23%. I mean it was comforting and considering the attendants didn’t know what exactly was going to happen, it was all they could offer. Still, I only had the clothes I was wearing (black pj pants, a t-shirt, and a hoodie) and no toiletries; I couldn’t stop a small rise in the stankometer.

After the flight to Seoul, I was pretty funky fresh. I slept almost the entire flight with my face basking in sweat and a small puddle of drool accumulated in one of those tiny airplane pillows. Charming, I know. But really, being in an airplane is just a rank existence. You eat, sleep, and watch movies. It sounds like the perfect life in theory, but in practice it sucks. For example, I could be eating dinner then the next moment, I lean back the chair, and hey! I’m in bed. Now I’m going to put all my trash (dirty tissues, gum, leftover food) in this tiny pocket in front of me and take out this magazine FROM THE SAME POCKET. And someone already did the easy Sudoku. What the CRAP! Not to mention the sweat I worked up shaking the headrest TV for cutting off the end of “Definitely, Maybe”. The movie was cute, got a problem with that? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Ahem. Anyway, stank at 70%.

At the airport, we discover that our flight is tomorrow morning and that we are staying in a hotel inside the airport. The group decides that we should try to ditch airport and see Seoul after showering. The shower refreshed me, but I still didn’t have a toothbrush and I had to put on my old clothes. Stank at 20%.

As we wondered around, we began to realize the airport was closed including immigration. We were just wondering around closed stores, playing on the speed walks, and we even had a race with the baggage carts. I returned to my room tired and disappointed, with a stank around 45%. But none of that mattered because out of the 15 channels on TV, 2 were Starcraft! I stayed up the entire night (it was only a few hours) watching these titans do battle in front of a crowd of whining Korean girls. I was in heaven. My stank just rose to 55%.

This is what heaven looks like

I didn’t sleep at all on the flight next flight to Hanoi, and my legs were starting to get so sweaty that I was rolling up my pants at every 5 minutes. Even worse, my friend in the seat next to mine had a crazy love stain on his blanket. It was huge, and I am tempted to call it a passion stain but that’s just nasty. By the end of the flight, I was tired, foul, and grumpy. Stank at 96%.

After we got our bags and left the airport, an unbearable wave of heat and humidity plowed over me. The van driving us from the airport was like an oven, and sweat was just pouring out of me. I hadn’t brushed my teeth in days and my clothes smelled like a gym bag filled with airplane food and farts. I wasted my sleep watching Starcraft and a lame romantic comedy. My stank reached 1000%. That is 10x the stank a normal person could handle. I finally reached it. I was stinky, grumpy travel guy (this is for you, Steve). The guy you can smell across the airplane, the guy whose breath could melt glass, the guy that glares at you as you walk by in the terminal, I was that guy.

Here is me before and after the flight:

Before: Look at that sexy guy

After: I think I just pooed myself

When I arrived at the guest house, the only thing I was thinking of was showering. I got my key, moved at my luggage into the room and stripped. Now, I was already feeling vulnerable because it is a “wet” bathroom, “wet” meaning “all your crap in the room and the entire floor is going to be soaked because there is no shower curtain to protect you from peeping-tom cockroaches.” I turned the water on cold and started scrubbing like crazy in the freezing shower. Just as I was getting my groove on, this beast emerges from the darkness and lays claim to my foot. I start screaming like a girl and kicking like a mad man. With the water still pouring on me from the shower head, the first thing I do is grab a washcloth to cover my unmentionables. The beast was flapping its wings in what I can only assume to be some sort of attempt to kill. In the midst of all the kicking, I managed to flip the monster on its back where it lay helplessly. I seized the moment of weakness to run out of the bathroom (still clenching my now soaked washcloth) to grab a slipper. I swung my weapon down on the foul beast and slew it with my might. In its dying moments, I felt a swell of guilt so I named him Ned.

Here is a close up of Ned:

R.I.P. One Love, Buddy

Ready, Go

2008-06-15T20:31:00.000-07:00

Miracle Fruit. The only other fruit that has a name that pretentious is dragon fruit, which most definitely lives up to the hype. Dragon fruit looks like a pink fireball with green tongues of fire (Holy Crap, that’s cool). I spent at least an hour with these bad boys pretending to be Lui Kang from Mortal Kombat. Grade school gave me the impression that beans were the Magical Fruit and that the more you eat, the more you do indeed poop. How can any fruit be more magical than that? Any sort of produce that tries to oust the bean from the title of Miracle Fruit better cure cancer or make everything taste sweet. Well, apparently the latter is true. Did you just read that?! Everything taste sweet? I just want to eat one and start devouring my keyboard to see how sweet and delicious it is.

I first learned of this mystical, magical, miracle fruit exactly one week ago in a taxi ride to Hanoi where I would be staying with DukeEngage. On my one and only other journey to Vietnam, I felt like I learned so much about myself. I learned why my family was different: why we act differently, speak differently, live differently. I mean it seems like a simple idea, that a minority in one part of the world can be the majority somewhere else, but reading and realizing are totally different from feeling it and letting it engulf you. As I let everything from my “homeland” wash around me, everything seemed sweeter. Every walk was a journey, every conversation was a lesson, and every memory was… sugary bliss.

I suppose my previous trip to Vietnam came at a funny time in my life. I was struggling with my identity. I was in a major I hated in a school where I didn't fit the mold, and I was spending my life doing stuff I did not enjoy. After a year and a half at school, I didn’t feel as if I forged any lasting connections. My only connection was to the internet, and YouTube and Wikipedia were my friends. Yeah, I was that pathetic and darn all of those links everywhere (well maybe not THAT pathetic, but the pun was too good to let go). On the bright side, I know how to make a trumpet out of a carrot, a cucumber and a bell pepper, and I think I watched every animal fight video on the internet. I know that sounds weird, but Jaguar vs Anaconda is a classic. I believe the scientific term is a “funk,” and that funky ball of tits from outer space had me down (watch the Mighty Boosh, you won’t regret it). When I went to Vietnam, everything seemed fresh and new, but everything also seemed to be a part of me. I now realize that Vietnam was just a sanctuary to my confused mind. It was an anchor to my identity that I so desperately wanted. I am now coming to realize that everything seemed so sweet because of how sour and bitter the world can be.

One week after arriving in Hanoi, I find myself at the height of cultural ignorance. I am not Vietnamese. I am not American. That puts me somewhere in the middle, drowning in the water that separates them. I guess what I am saying, is that there is no miracle fruit, and nothing can stay sweet forever.

Props to heita3 on YouTube