Halloween in November

The last time I knocked on a door while wearing a costume I was 12 years old and they were giving me candy. There's usually something wrong if you're 24 and running around at night doing the same thing. But Tuesday night, that's exactly what I was doing, complete with a full body bear suit. Granted, I wasn't exactly in my right mind, due to a marathon journey from southern Vietnam through Bangkok and back to Portland. As such I hadn't really slept in three days, and even now my brain is still somewhere over Hong Kong.

That is still no excuse for standing on my own doorstep dressed like Smokey's little brother. Eventually my dad answered the doorbell and I lumbered in, peering through the mesh eye holes and trying to string together coherent sentences in a disguised voice. My mother sized up this costumed intruder in gleeful disbelief. As Bernie the Bear launched into his singing telegram, serenading my mother with a version of "Happy Birthday", she happened to glance down at the dancing feet. The suit didn't quite cover my toes and my mother somehow recognized them, as only a mother can. I removed the mask at the end of my song and squeezed my mom as she leaped into my arms, screaming with joy for a good 10 minutes, rendered ecstatically speechless by the appearance of her wandering daughter, garbed in a bear suit, showing up a week early, and on her birthday no less.

Thanks to my dad's amazing brainstorm I made a quality entrance back to the United States, and that means that yes, I'm back. I'll respond to emails, answer the phone to share stories, and probably show up on your doorstep if you're in the Portland area. It has been an amazing adventure to say the least. I'm still getting used to wandering down the grocery aisles full of strange and familiar products, and I have to keep reminding myself that I'm not in Asia any more as I drive around town.

Thank you all for reading my rants of the last six months - it's been a fun experiment. If you want to hear more I can deliver it all in person. For those of you in Montana, I'll see you soon. For those of you elsewhere, best of luck on wherever your adventures take you.

I Survived Saigon

I'm a couple hours away from successfully exiting this teeming city, but it's not Saigon itself that will kill you, it's the getting there part. I left my guesthouse on Phu Quoc Island at 6:30 Sunday morning. One of the young women running the guesthouse came out in her pajamas, saddled up her motor bike, and gave me a lift down the bumpy red dirt road into town. There I was loaded onto a mini-bus with several other passengers for the 20 km drive down to the boat pier at the island's southern tip.

The ferry ride began with some Ben and Jerry cartoons, with techno music thumping on the sound system. Then we got to watch not only "The Gods Must Be Crazy" but "The Gods Must Be Crazy, Part II", dubbed and subtitled in Vietnamese. The seas were rough enough that the attendants were handing out plastic bags but thankfully I didn't see, or hear, anyone using them.

At the pier in Rach Gia, back on the mainland, it was a short scooter ride to the bus station, which turned out to be a small kiosk tucked between two local eateries. I partook in the common hobby of sitting on the sidewalk in a low plastic chair, sipping strong coffee, and watching the traffic fly by. The rest of the men sitting around greatly enjoyed my tattoo and spent a good while staring and giggling. People came by selling sun glasses, lottery tickets, fresh fruit, and we kept waiting.

20 minutes after the appointed time the mini-van rolled up. The puppy in its carrier was stowed under the back seat with the bags of potatoes, passengers were assigned seats, and luggage was pile in whatever voids were left to be filled. The sliding door required some strong persuasion to stay shut, and threatened to fly off throughout the journey. Every single road seemed to be under construction, trucks came flying past a hair's breath away, and there were motor scooters zipping any and every direction they liked. Men emerged dripping from setting fishing nets in the murky roadside ponds and canals. Rain showers came and went. All in all, a typical Vietnamese road trip.

Even after navigating the impending Saigon traffic to the Mien Thay bus station, the journey wasn't over yet. That station happens to be a good 10 km from the city center, and the moto taxis enjoy levelling exorbitant rates to get you there. Somehow, though, I managed to sneak aboard a city bus that eventually stopped somewhere familiar, and got away with a 25 cent ride. A short hike and some enquiries later, by 8:00 I had a windowless cell in which to spend the night and a butt entirely numb from the twelve hour journey. It's more stubborness than endurance that's gotten me this far.

In other news, my dad's been at it again. If you're interested, or just wasting time online, you can flip through all my adventures with Nathan in Thailand by clicking here, or you can see what I got up to in Vietnam before my mother arrived by clicking here. I preface this with the statement that these photos have not been edited beyond their orientation, so proceed at your own risk.

Notes from Vietnam

I was sitting in an internet cafe full of Vietnamese kids plăying computer games when I read the final election results. It was one of the few times I fervently wished for the presence of a fellow American, someone with whom I could share my excitment. Obama won and my mother made it safe back to the States - life is good.

One of the things my mother carried in her expertly packed bags was a memory card from my camera, containing all the pictures of our adventures. So if you're bored and want to check out rice paddies, food art, and flattering pictures of yours truly, click here. Thank you, Dad, for getting all those online!

The past couple days have been funny, both in the ha-ha and the boo-hoo sense of the word. After my mother's departure I made a break for the Mekong Delta and discovered that in this country trying to get off the tourist trail instantly makes your life ten times more difficult. Fewer people speak English, public transport drops you in mysterious and inconvenient spots, and if you hesitate in your confusion, you're lost. Still, it's still fairly entertaining to be the only white person in town and see the look on a street vendor's face when you tell them (in sign language) that you'd like some food. It's even more entertaining trying to guess what all those parts floating around in the soup are.

I've decided to while away my last couple days in Vietnam on the island of Phu Quoc, so far southwest that it's almost Cambodia. There are white sand beaches, blue water, and palm trees for sipping fruit shakes under. The trick is finding a place that serves something other than steak and pizza (apparently the only thing tourists like to eat). On the 9th I road trip back to Ho Chi Minh City, and fly to Bangkok on the 10th to get out of the country before my visa expires.

Hurts So Good

It's amazing how far a 45 minute plane flight can get you. After the fifteen hour bus journey from Hoi An to Dalat, Mom opted to spend the next leg in the air. We left behind the lush hills and valleys of the central highlands and landed smack dab in the middle of hazy, humid, crazy Saigon. Officially known as Ho Chi Minh City, the name still depends on where you're from and how communist you are. Either way, people will know you're talking about a place with 8 million people and 3 million motorbikes.

Crossing the street feels a little like swimming through a school of tiger sharks - as long as you keep moving calmly and sedately, avoiding any thrashing or sudden movements, you'll come out on the other side in one piece. We had plenty of chances to practice this skill as we made our way across the city, as the streets are much wider and the blocks much longer than Hanoi. From the backpacker area we wandered past the old market, stopped for some passion fruit ice cream that had Mother swooning, visited a Vietnamese quilt shop (selling finished products only, to Mother's dismay), and finally washed up on the doorstep of the Golden Lotus Foot Massage Club.

Although the name suggests a bad Chinese restaurant by day and a seedy dance club by night, the place was actually more than nice enough for my mother. The card claims to have the "Facilties of a 5 Star Hotel At a price That is much less expensive Than anticipated and Easy access" and we're inclined to believe them. For $15 dollars we first sipped lotus tea to soothing music, then were ushered upstairs to a cadre of giggling young women who proceeded to massage and manipulate our bodies for the next 90 minutes. Rose water foot bath, cucumber face mask, more methods for spine cracking than I've ever encountered, we got it all. I believe I still have a footprint-shaped bruise between my shoulder blades from when the gal did the cha-cha on my back.

Spines realigned and muscles melted, we emerged back into the thrum of the city as darkness was settling. Today we explored some other dark corners in the War Remnants Museum and the Reunification Palace before making a good effort at spending the last of my mother's dong. She's sitting beside me as I write, watching a Chinese soap opera dubbed into Vietnamese and waiting for the taxi that will take her to the airport. Since she hasn't disowned me yet I can only imagine that she enjoyed her short stay. It will be a bit lonely without her - safe travels, mummy dearest!