Wow! As I look back on the events of yesterday, this is the first word that comes to my mind. The term “eye opening” just isn’t emphatic enough. Mind jarring is a better description as I can almost feel someone above me with a crowbar prying my mind open and pushing my perceptions to the side to make room for a flood of new information that will permanently impact the way I perceive things in the future.
I woke up this morning after a much needed restful sleep and immediately made my way to the breakfast table. The spread in front of me is impressive with an array of options ranging from fresh fruit to pho to eggs to steamed dumplings. I decided on the pho and dumplings as my eyes and stomach steered me past the standard breakfast fare in the direction of the local specialties. With a stomach full of goodies and my day pack in hand, I make my way out into the hot sun to begin my day.
Within steps of my hotel, I see a busy shop with a US dollar sign listed on the sign in front of the shop. This is exactly what I am looking for as I am running out of Vietnamese dong notes. The chaotic environment around the shop makes me a bit apprehensive to exchange a large sum of cash with so many people around. I walk up and try to discreetly present a sum of money that is probably a month or more of salary for a typical Saigon local. My 150 USD results in about a 150 different dong notes. Surprisingly, the transaction is simple and there are no communication issues. As I haplessly attempt to jam my dong notes into my money belt, -- failing miserably to be subtle -- I notice my cyclo driver from last night. He is waiting for me with a host of others ready to sell me anything and everything. I buy a fresh coconut and take a couple refreshing gulps of coconut milk before jumping on the cyclo and beginning my day. I have no idea what I am about to see and experience.
My first destination is the Giac Lam Pagoda. Years later, I would be able to trace back to this moment in time as it served as my introduction to a completely different religion and way of life. This is where I was first introduced to Buddhism.
The Giac Lam Pagoda is Vietnam’s oldest pagoda. Upon entering the pagoda, I feel my body and mind begin to relax. The pagoda feels holy and threatening at the same time. The only light entering the pagoda shines through the windows at odd angles. I can smell the burning incense and am mesmerized by the turquoise green and gold temple in front of me. I look down at the bare feet of the monk that I am following through the pagoda and am overwhelmed by his tranquility. I notice people lying on the ground around me as they pray and use the floor to cool their bodies at the same time. I feel calm resonating throughout my body as I sit down and pray with the others. I am uncomfortable as I do not know the correct sitting posture and have no idea what to do with my hands. I look around, hoping not to be noticed, to mimic the postures of the worshippers around me. I cross my legs, extend my arms across my knees with palms facing up and shut my eyes. At this point, who I am praying to is of little consequence. God or Buddha, my mind feels clear.
After some time, I exit the pagoda and jump back aboard my cyclo. I am now in route to another pagoda. We ride along the busy streets towards the Giac Vien Pagoda, which is located in a more residential section of town. We turn down a less busy street where I can see inside the homes of the people who live in this area. Since air conditioning is non existent, the doors and windows of the homes are all open to allow for as much airflow as possible. In the homes that I can see inside of, there are many people congregated together in a single room. Some are napping, others watch TV and others appear to be working. My first impression after seeing these tiny, and in some cases dilapidated homes, is one of shock. However, the stares I receive from the people when our eyes meet slowly turn into warm smiles making me feel more comfortable as I approach the pagoda.
As I walk up to the pagoda entrance, a smiling monk greets me with a handshake and references in the direction of my feet to indicate that my shoes need to be removed before I can enter the pagoda. After removing my shoes, I follow the monk, who leads with smiles in place of words, towards a table inside. I have no idea what to do so I follow his lead and sit down on the chair across from him. It is much cooler in this pagoda and the interior is more spacious and open. I glance towards the ceiling and can see the dust particles floating in the rays of light near the rafters. The monk turns to his left and grabs a teapot and pours us each a cup of tea. There is no conversation other than our smiles as we share a cup of tea.
After our refreshing drink, we rise and I follow the monk through the pagoda. He uses hand and facial gestures to point out what I perceive to be some of the most significant symbols and areas in the temple. Likewise, I am able to use hand and face gestures to indicate to him that I would like to take his picture. He obliges and smiles beamingly. According to the description in my Rough Guide, there are bats hanging from some of the rafters that you can occasionally hear squeaking. I lean my head back and look above me, watching and listening for any sign of the bats until my neck begins to ache. Just as I am about to give up, I spot two hanging bats. They don’t look threatening, but scare me nonetheless. It is time for me to leave, but I am unable to locate the monk to thank him. Eventually, he appears and we exchange handshakes and bows before I exit the pagoda. As I walk out into the hot sun, I find myself contemplating the serene religious atmosphere that these temples seem to offer. From the warmth of the monks to the environment and décor to the music, they seem to be the perfect place to contemplate with one’s self. After visiting these 2 pagodas, my mind is burdened by many thoughts. I am not entirely sure what these thoughts are telling me but I feel very deeply that I need to gain a greater understanding of the tenets of Buddhism.
My driver is now peddling in the direction of Cholon. Cholon is the Chinese ghetto in Saigon that is home to one of the largest and most popular markets in the entire city. Upon arrival, I tell my cyclo driver that I will meet him in one hour and we part ways.
I begin to wander around and am immediately mesmerized by the array of activity going on around me. Everything is for sale with no exceptions. This is the department store, jewelry store, grocery store, lingerie store and any other store you can imagine in one place. From perfume to jade to diapers to fresh chicken and cuttlefish, anything can be bought here. It is as amazing as it is filthy. Food scraps, garbage and puddles of smelly, dark colored liquid are everywhere. I am trying to avoid stepping with my sandaled feet into these puddles, but am failing miserably. I feel disgusted as I look at my dirty, wet feet but have no choice but to move on. There are rows upon rows of tables filled with jewelry, razors, soap, candy, towels and pens in no semblance of order. I look down one aisle in the market and am amazed by the chaos I see in my path. There is so much garbage that it is almost impossible to see whether the road beneath is made of dirt or clay. I see children selling fruit, women making and selling fresh spring rolls at street kitchens and people buying drapes to furnish their homes. I make a bold and potentially dangerous decision when I decide to listen to my belly instead of my mind. My fondness for vendor sold street food runs deep and one peek at this woman laying out all sorts of fresh vegetables and ingredients to make spring rolls is enough to stop me in my tracks. Knowing that this is a calculated decision that I very well could pay for later, I ponder over what to do for a second before deciding that this opportunity is too good to pass up. I sit down on a bucket that is being used as a stool and face up to the makeshift table she is assembling the spring rolls on. Since verbal communication isn’t an option, I pick up whatever she puts in front of me and put it into my mouth. One spring roll is filled with pork and the other with shrimp. I use the fish sauce she gives me for dipping and it tastes delicious. Her warm smile and my awareness that I am the only tourist with white skin anywhere around me make the food taste even better. After enjoying this nice snack, I meander around the market for some time investigating dozens of stalls selling t-shirts, Buddhist statues and jade earrings and necklaces in the hopes of finding something for my mother and sister.
At this point, I have seen a good portion this large market. I could stay for hours but with so much else to see, I decide that a walk back to my cyclo is in my best interest. My cyclo driver is chatting with some girls on the street when I walk up and hop aboard. He winks at me and nods his head toward the women standing in front of me. The women are smiling adoringly at me. I return their smiles and say hello. He winks at me again. I wink back at him and tell him that it is time for us to push ahead. He obliges, jumps aboard and peddles on. I am uncertain as to his intentions towards these women. He is probably just trying to be courteous and help me, but I don’t need this kind of help. At least I don’t need it right now.
Out on the streets and amid traffic again, we are headed in the direction of another market; the Binh Tay Market. However, the Binh Tay Market will have to be our second stop as it is nearing lunch time and a bowl of pho is calling my name. There is a local restaurant called Pho 2000 that I read about earlier today that we are headed to for lunch. We arrive at the restaurant and I excitedly hop off of my cyclo. I walk towards the restaurant but my cyclo driver isn’t following me. I stop and walk back towards him and try to persuade him to join me for lunch. I know it is his job to wait for me and drive me around but sometimes that feels uncomfortable and I would like for him to join me for a bowl of pho. It takes some coaxing but he finally agrees to let me buy him a coke, but not lunch. As he enjoys his coke and I my warm, nourishing and scrumptious bowl of pho, we make some significant progress communicating. I find out that he is 29 years old and is married with a 3 year old son. He has a very difficult time understanding why I am still single since I am nearly his age. I don’t know if this has anything to do with me being single but he once again makes it known to me that he can find me any kind of woman I desire. He makes sure to let me know this again and again throughout the day. While these questions are humorous to me, this service is obviously standard for men like me that are visiting Vietnam.
Eating at basic, non-touristy restaurants that are frequented by locals is quite an adjustment for someone from the Western world. They offer great value - my lunch cost 1$ - but they are very rudimentary and by Western standards, a bit dirty. Pho 2000 has basic white tables with bright light beaming in through the windows from every angle. It is hot with no air conditioning, but that doesn’t stop me from ordering a bowl of hot soup for lunch. Saigon is a large, populous city with a tropical climate and it is not uncommon to find an occasional bug crawling across your table. Pho 2000 is no exception as I see a few gnat size bugs crawling on my table. I wipe them off of the table to provide a clear space for my soup. This isn’t anything I couldn’t get used to or can’t comprehend given the humidity and environment. However, I would not be surprised to find an unseasoned traveler venturing out of a wealthy Western country for the first time distraught at the thought of going out for a meal. They very well might find themselves not eating much of anything or overpaying and eating at restaurants frequented strictly by tourists. However, choosing to avoid local places like Pho 2000 would be a tragic mistake because food is such an integral part of Vietnamese culture. The Vietnamese’ famous love of food is as much a part of their culture as the conical hat or the water buffalo and it is hard to really appreciate this unless you are willing to rub elbows with Saigon’s residents at a local restaurant. I have mentioned pho quite a few times now. For those new to the term and the dish, here is an impassioned description of the dish itself and what it means to Vietnamese culture that I found posted on the Pho 2000 web site.
“What is Pho? (pronounced "FUH") For many Vietnamese, pho is life, love and all things that matter. We treasure pho, and most of us have loved it since the day we were old enough to hold a pair of chopsticks. The pho itself is actually a noodle made from the finest white rice. The pho is then topped with thin slices of beef. The rich, vibrant broth is produced after long hours of simmering in the finest beef and bone marrow. This flavorful broth is then poured onto the pho. The rich bowl of pho is then topped with onions, cilantro and green onions. Pho is then served with a side dish of bean sprouts, limes, spikes of basil, and sliced green chili to create a healthy, delicious, and satisfying meal. Pho provides a delicious one-dish meal for your breakfast, lunch or even dinner. Pho in every Vietnamese family is a must, much in the same way as pasta is an inextricable part of Italian culinary tradition and culture.”
After lunch, the Binh Tay Market offers more local culture. I take particular interest in the full range of street vendors selling fruit and vegetables that line the entrance to the market. As I continue to walk through the market and around the surrounding streets, I encounter poverty like never before. It appears that each home functions as a store by day and home by night with the amount of people inhabiting the homes far exceeding any reasonable capacity. I feel hot and sticky and grimy just looking at the population density in this area. There are naked children playing in the streets in puddles of liquid that are indistinguishable from one another. The areas around and in between the puddles are laden with garbage. Although a bit unsettling, this is also very real and makes me feel even more in touch and connected to my surroundings.
Of all the things I have seen today, what I find most interesting to me is the people I have encountered. Their warmth is overwhelming. I have had people tap me on my shoulder while I ride along on my cyclo and they pass on their motorbike just to say hello and practice their limited English by asking me where I am from and how old I am. After I respond, they smile and drive away. Their sincere smiles have an impact on me and make me feel good inside. It is fascinating to see the excitement young children and adults receive from saying hello to a Western traveler. The children are adorable. Due to their incredible persistence, I feel obligated to buy useless things. In one instance, a 7 or 8 year-old girl approached me and showed me all 15 things she had in her bag. She pulled one item after another out of her bag and continued to nod her head as she heard me respond “No” after “No”. She showed no sign that she would stop or leave me alone. I finally bought a paper fan off of her for 1$. Her smile was worth it. A few people even grab me by my arm just to touch me. However, my fondest memory is the result of a chance meeting with a woman outside the Giac Lam Pagoda named Quien.
Ethnically Chinese, Quien is an accountant by day and teaches English as a second language at night. She approaches me as I exit the pagoda and politely asks if she can have a few minutes of my time. She wants to ask me some questions regarding the correct pronunciation of some English words. All she has with her is a Vietnamese book with English translation on the side margin of each page. This is not a textbook. It is a novel and is the only resource she either has available to her or can afford. This is the lone study guide that Quien uses to improve her English so that she can effectively teach the language to others. I try my best to explain to her what some terms and phrases mean that are listed in her book. She wants to know what “rallying the troops” means in addition to the words “scratch” and “crack”. Given her very limited vocabulary, it is almost impossible for me to explain what “rallying the troops” means. She seems to be a very sweet woman and she is so eager to learn. Before long, one of her students passes by and asks if he can join our conversation. Ironically, Quien is the teacher yet it is much easier for me to converse with her student. As a shower passes, we stand under an awning outside the pagoda and talk for nearly 30 minutes. If I had 2 hours to spare, Quien and her student would have been happy to continue our conversation and absorb as much as possible about the English language and my culture. Quien gives me her phone number and offers to show me around the city as a token of her appreciation for me spending time with her. Although I doubt that time will permit this to happen, this is a sweet gesture when I should be the one thanking her for the 30 minutes of her time that she gave to me.
The warmth of the Vietnamese people is what makes this country special. In my memories of Saigon, I won’t forget my cyclo driver, Quien, the friendly monks or the smiling children. Despite seeing sometimes deplorable conditions and situations that an outsider might think look hopeless, the Vietnamese persevere and that is why their country has prevailed from its past conflicts and continues to grow and evolve. I think that their warm demeanor and optimism are keys to their development. I experienced a lot today and much of what I have seen makes me feel good about the world and has erased many of the perceptions that I may have had.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Monday, April 10, 2006
Facing the Dragon - Chapter 1
By Chris Sarcletti
Country: Vietnam
I grab my backpack from the luggage turnstile and make my way out into the heat and humidity of the mid day to catch a cab to my hotel. I walk up to the first empty cab I see, open the back door and set my bag on the seat right beside me. My driver is friendly and speaks reasonable English. He asks me where I am from and we have a short conversation before my attention wanes. I stare out the window and take in my first real glimpses of Vietnam. The streets are chaotic with all sorts of vehicles moving in every direction. It looks almost as hot and sticky as it feels. It is hard for me to actually believe that I am in Saigon. Amsterdam seems like a world away now. After nearly 30 minutes, I finally arrive at my destination, the Continental Hotel.
The Continental Hotel seems to be a decent enough place and it has a long history. It is mentioned frequently in Graham Greene’s novel The Quiet American as Greene talks incessantly about the hotel’s courtyard where the novel’s protagonist enjoys many a Singapore Sling.
It feels good to sit down on my bed for a few moments and unwind. I am exhausted but have no desire to go to sleep. I unpack my luggage and organize my room. My spacious room seems to be clean, until I find a dead cockroach on the floor. While I usually would find the site of a dead cockroach in my hotel room to be quite disconcerting, this is Saigon and it is about a hundred fucking degrees outside. I am not too bothered. I take a quick shower and change into a fresh outfit. I am ready to venture out into the city for the first time.
Within minutes of exiting the hotel, I am approached by a cyclo driver asking me if I want a ride. I have no intention of using a cyclo just yet. I’ve been sitting for most of the last 30 hours and need to stretch my legs. In addition, I am excited and have been looking forward to walking around a bit and taking in some of the city on foot. As I walk down the street, I realize that I have vastly underestimated the perseverance of this particular cyclo driver. For the next 5 minutes, he acts as my shadow. As I walk down Dong Khoi Street, he is never far behind. It is hard not to notice him staring at me from the other side of the street. When I look in his direction, his eyes immediately light up. He jumps off of his cyclo and runs half way across the street shouting in the hopes of getting me to stop and acknowledge his existence. After 10 minutes of this, I am already a broken man. Astonished by his determination, I wave him over and jump aboard his vehicle. We exchange pleasantries and he bombards me with a litany of questions. What’s your name? Where are you from? Do you have a girlfriend? The girlfriend question is sometimes followed by additional probing questions if one is foolish enough to admit that they are single and traveling alone. This cyclo driver is a wealth of information as we experience a pleasant sunset and spend an hour or so taking in the environment of the area surrounding the Continental Hotel. This is the center of the city.
The traffic in Ho Chi Mihn City is unbelievable. I have never seen anything remotely close to it. Chaos!
Everyone, whether aboard a cyclo, bike, car, motorbike, truck, bus or on foot is moving at their own pace and according to their own agenda. No one has any concern for anyone else, or so it seems. Acting in a very reactive manner, everyone makes the appropriate adjustments and diversions to avoid colliding with vehicles, pedestrians and whatever else they may encounter on the road. Miraculously, people continue to move amid the bedlam.
My first cyclo ride in Saigon taught me more than I ever could have imagined it would. Remarkably, whether you are walking or are a passenger in some type of vehicle, you continue to make one move after another until the pandemonium doesn’t seem to faze you. It is of no importance what direction you are heading or what side of the road you think you should be on. The vehicles and people just move and there are no rules. I expect to see collisions and people flying off of motorbikes but I only see traffic that moves at a snails pace. Is crossing the street and walking in Saigon dangerous? Yes, but you have no choice unless you want to sit in your hotel or only stray a few blocks from it.
My salesman driver must have seen the wide eyed look on my face as he made sure that this ride would continue on the following day. It didn’t take long for him to get me to agree to meet him at 11 AM tomorrow morning for a half day cyclo tour of the city. He tells me that he will take me anywhere that I want to go. My appetite is whetted and I am ready to see and experience much more of Saigon.
I am exhausted both physically and emotionally. I relax in my room for nearly an hour but know that I need to venture back out into the city for dinner. I make my way on foot over to a restaurant recommended in my Rough Guide to Vietnam. The Vietnam House restaurant has female servers in traditional dress serving authentic dishes with Vietnamese music playing in the background. The hotel concierge said that the Vietnam House is a good, but rather pricey restaurant. For dinner, I have an order of spring rolls followed by a Southern Vietnamese regional delicacy of fish cooked in a clay pot. The fish is served in a sweet and spicy sauce with sticky rice. A couple Saigon 333 beers help to aid with digestion, in addition to numbing my fatigue. My meal is nice and it costs me a total of 10 USD.
I walk back to my hotel with a fleeting thought of Graham Greene’s The Quiet American still in my head and decide that a Singapore Sling before bed might help me rest even better. I find a table in the area surrounding the pleasant, tropical courtyard bar that is so vividly described in Greene’s novel. I order a concoction of gin, lime juice, pineapple juice, grenadine, brandy and cointreau. I take a long sip slowly from the straw. As I taste my drink, snapshots of my first few hours in Saigon flash through my mind.
The polluted Saigon River, women selling fruit on the street, beggars and people with deformities. As I made my way down Dong Khoi street and the surrounding avenues, the deformities became particularly noticeable to me. With excerpts from many different books and articles about Vietnam and the war fresh in my head, what I saw was even more disconcerting to me. While seeing deformed and crippled people would be troubling to most, it is even more so to someone who feels that they carry some of the responsibility for what they see before their eyes. I am an American and many of these deformities are by products of the chemical warfare that the US used in abundance on the Vietnamese populace during the Vietnam War. I know that these things should make me feel uncomfortable and I need to come to terms with them internally, but that is an ongoing process. It won’t happen in a couple of hours or a couple of days. I have deep convictions that what my country did in Vietnam was wrong. This was very clear to me before and it is even clearer now. The Vietnamese seem to have a great propensity for forgiveness when it comes to their past that I wish I could share. Forgive as they may though, no one should ever forget.
I have had one of the longest days I can remember and have experienced more than I could have imagined at this point in time. It is hard for me to contain my excitement for what I will see in the coming days and weeks. However, it is now time to rest my mind and body as they both surely need it.
Country: Vietnam
I grab my backpack from the luggage turnstile and make my way out into the heat and humidity of the mid day to catch a cab to my hotel. I walk up to the first empty cab I see, open the back door and set my bag on the seat right beside me. My driver is friendly and speaks reasonable English. He asks me where I am from and we have a short conversation before my attention wanes. I stare out the window and take in my first real glimpses of Vietnam. The streets are chaotic with all sorts of vehicles moving in every direction. It looks almost as hot and sticky as it feels. It is hard for me to actually believe that I am in Saigon. Amsterdam seems like a world away now. After nearly 30 minutes, I finally arrive at my destination, the Continental Hotel.
The Continental Hotel seems to be a decent enough place and it has a long history. It is mentioned frequently in Graham Greene’s novel The Quiet American as Greene talks incessantly about the hotel’s courtyard where the novel’s protagonist enjoys many a Singapore Sling.
It feels good to sit down on my bed for a few moments and unwind. I am exhausted but have no desire to go to sleep. I unpack my luggage and organize my room. My spacious room seems to be clean, until I find a dead cockroach on the floor. While I usually would find the site of a dead cockroach in my hotel room to be quite disconcerting, this is Saigon and it is about a hundred fucking degrees outside. I am not too bothered. I take a quick shower and change into a fresh outfit. I am ready to venture out into the city for the first time.
Within minutes of exiting the hotel, I am approached by a cyclo driver asking me if I want a ride. I have no intention of using a cyclo just yet. I’ve been sitting for most of the last 30 hours and need to stretch my legs. In addition, I am excited and have been looking forward to walking around a bit and taking in some of the city on foot. As I walk down the street, I realize that I have vastly underestimated the perseverance of this particular cyclo driver. For the next 5 minutes, he acts as my shadow. As I walk down Dong Khoi Street, he is never far behind. It is hard not to notice him staring at me from the other side of the street. When I look in his direction, his eyes immediately light up. He jumps off of his cyclo and runs half way across the street shouting in the hopes of getting me to stop and acknowledge his existence. After 10 minutes of this, I am already a broken man. Astonished by his determination, I wave him over and jump aboard his vehicle. We exchange pleasantries and he bombards me with a litany of questions. What’s your name? Where are you from? Do you have a girlfriend? The girlfriend question is sometimes followed by additional probing questions if one is foolish enough to admit that they are single and traveling alone. This cyclo driver is a wealth of information as we experience a pleasant sunset and spend an hour or so taking in the environment of the area surrounding the Continental Hotel. This is the center of the city.
The traffic in Ho Chi Mihn City is unbelievable. I have never seen anything remotely close to it. Chaos!
Everyone, whether aboard a cyclo, bike, car, motorbike, truck, bus or on foot is moving at their own pace and according to their own agenda. No one has any concern for anyone else, or so it seems. Acting in a very reactive manner, everyone makes the appropriate adjustments and diversions to avoid colliding with vehicles, pedestrians and whatever else they may encounter on the road. Miraculously, people continue to move amid the bedlam.
My first cyclo ride in Saigon taught me more than I ever could have imagined it would. Remarkably, whether you are walking or are a passenger in some type of vehicle, you continue to make one move after another until the pandemonium doesn’t seem to faze you. It is of no importance what direction you are heading or what side of the road you think you should be on. The vehicles and people just move and there are no rules. I expect to see collisions and people flying off of motorbikes but I only see traffic that moves at a snails pace. Is crossing the street and walking in Saigon dangerous? Yes, but you have no choice unless you want to sit in your hotel or only stray a few blocks from it.
My salesman driver must have seen the wide eyed look on my face as he made sure that this ride would continue on the following day. It didn’t take long for him to get me to agree to meet him at 11 AM tomorrow morning for a half day cyclo tour of the city. He tells me that he will take me anywhere that I want to go. My appetite is whetted and I am ready to see and experience much more of Saigon.
I am exhausted both physically and emotionally. I relax in my room for nearly an hour but know that I need to venture back out into the city for dinner. I make my way on foot over to a restaurant recommended in my Rough Guide to Vietnam. The Vietnam House restaurant has female servers in traditional dress serving authentic dishes with Vietnamese music playing in the background. The hotel concierge said that the Vietnam House is a good, but rather pricey restaurant. For dinner, I have an order of spring rolls followed by a Southern Vietnamese regional delicacy of fish cooked in a clay pot. The fish is served in a sweet and spicy sauce with sticky rice. A couple Saigon 333 beers help to aid with digestion, in addition to numbing my fatigue. My meal is nice and it costs me a total of 10 USD.
I walk back to my hotel with a fleeting thought of Graham Greene’s The Quiet American still in my head and decide that a Singapore Sling before bed might help me rest even better. I find a table in the area surrounding the pleasant, tropical courtyard bar that is so vividly described in Greene’s novel. I order a concoction of gin, lime juice, pineapple juice, grenadine, brandy and cointreau. I take a long sip slowly from the straw. As I taste my drink, snapshots of my first few hours in Saigon flash through my mind.
The polluted Saigon River, women selling fruit on the street, beggars and people with deformities. As I made my way down Dong Khoi street and the surrounding avenues, the deformities became particularly noticeable to me. With excerpts from many different books and articles about Vietnam and the war fresh in my head, what I saw was even more disconcerting to me. While seeing deformed and crippled people would be troubling to most, it is even more so to someone who feels that they carry some of the responsibility for what they see before their eyes. I am an American and many of these deformities are by products of the chemical warfare that the US used in abundance on the Vietnamese populace during the Vietnam War. I know that these things should make me feel uncomfortable and I need to come to terms with them internally, but that is an ongoing process. It won’t happen in a couple of hours or a couple of days. I have deep convictions that what my country did in Vietnam was wrong. This was very clear to me before and it is even clearer now. The Vietnamese seem to have a great propensity for forgiveness when it comes to their past that I wish I could share. Forgive as they may though, no one should ever forget.
I have had one of the longest days I can remember and have experienced more than I could have imagined at this point in time. It is hard for me to contain my excitement for what I will see in the coming days and weeks. However, it is now time to rest my mind and body as they both surely need it.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Happiness
By Chris Sarcletti
City: Paris
‘What a gorgeous day’ was the only thought going through my mind as we came up from the underground Metro station and approached the street. In regards to the weather, you never know if fall will come early in September and bring rain or if the clutches of summer will keep the sun in the sky. It appears that summer won on this day. We looked at our target and then looked at each other, wondering how we would actually get to the Arc. The convergence of who knows how many streets looked like some kind of puzzle we would have to solve. And it didn’t look like an easy puzzle. Surely, there was a defined route. After walking around for 20 minutes like the 2 lost green tourists we were, we finally figured it out. Being in the center of what I believe are 16 converging streets that surround a tremendous monument is quite amazing. You could actually see many near accidents happen and we even were ‘lucky’ enough to see one come to fruition. The climb to the top of the Arc was a bit more challenging than either Steve or I had anticipated. However, once we reached the top and got a glimpse of the view it provided, we knew that every step was well worth it. What an incredible view. With the Eiffel Tower in the distance and the Champs Elysees in front of us, there wasn’t much that words could do to describe the perspective we had at this point in time. We didn’t know what to stare at longer. It was hard to lose either way. However, I was particularly taken by the Champs Elysees and the view down the street. Stores, buildings, and monuments in the distance that I knew we would walk past in the very near future. In addition to the Champs, I was also focused on the 16 streets that converge at the Arc. The possibility for an accident in this area is truly amazing. What is even more amazing is the fact that there seems to be no real defined driving path on these streets. I mean, I am not sure at all what constitutes a lane in this area. It seems to me that it is more just a matter of looking over your shoulder and doing your very best to make sure you weren’t going to collide with the car next to you. All I can say is that I’m glad I didn’t have to attempt to drive in this mess. After taking in what seemed to be an hour’s worth of views, we eventually began our walk down the grandest of streets. I had a warm feeling in my stomach. Not too many days come around that are as perfect as this one and I wanted to treasure every moment of it. As we began to walk, I quickly felt my stomach grumble as we passed by one street side café after another. Steve and I decided that Vesuvio, an Italian Bistro that was actually recommended in our Rick Steves’ travel guide, was worth giving a try. As much as I wanted to settle into a dish in a typical Parisian café, hunger won out and we decided there would be more than enough time for French café cuisine later. Our pizzas and Cokes were nothing glamorous, but the view from our sidewalk table was. We enjoyed an hour and a half lunch and most of that time was spent watching the many people who passed by on this gorgeous day. With such a beautiful day upon us in such a special place, I really couldn’t have named a spot I would rather be at this particular time. We took the time in and didn’t want to let it go. A smile was brought to my face when a Parisian gentleman holding his two daughters hands passed me. I can honestly say that if a world is a book waiting to be opened, this may be page one. And if it’s not page one, it’s definitely in the Table of Contents somewhere. After lunch, we began our walk towards the monuments and buildings we saw earlier from the Arc. What a wonderful walk it was. We saw some magnificent shops, and took a minute or two to peer into one of Paris’s most famous cabaret clubs, Lido. I felt like a child in a candy store during this walk as I crossed the street time and time again. A few times, I stopped in the middle of a median separating the two lanes of traffic to absorb the view and snap a photograph in one direction and then the next. As we walked, I gazed into the windows of seemingly every store and, despite my full stomach, checked every menu I saw studiously as you never know when a craving will come calling. Laughing at myself, it occurred to me that the average Parisian would have found my behavior to be pretty strange. I can’t imagine working in an office building on this street. Even the most serious businessman during his busiest time would have to find it tough to turn down the prospect of a lunchtime stroll on the Champs. As we continued to stroll along, Steve and I found ourselves among all things, a perfume store. Sephora it was called and I must say, it was impressive as hell. Wall to wall perfume for every taste and desire no matter what it may be. After browsing around for some time for perfume for my Mom and my sister, I decided 15 different sprays of various scents on my arm were samples enough, so I gave up and picked 2. Impressed as I was, it was time to move on. I didn’t come to Paris to waste a beautiful day like today in a perfume store, no matter how special it was. The stroll down the grandest of avenues continued and the people watching did also until we eventually found ourselves firmly planted in a sunny café with a nice coffee in hand. This was not only a relaxing break but a scenic one as well. Being that we were nearing the end of the tree lined portion of this street before the garden area begins; the view of the Arc was overwhelming at this point. The way the Arc stands, with its presence, at the end of the street amongst gorgeous trees in full bloom is unbelievable. It exhibits power, stature, elegance and the satisfaction of being a Parisian. The garden area we continued into next was no less impressive. A park area was welcome after our endeavor down such a busy street. We needed this refreshing break. Hundreds upon hundreds of Parisians were enjoying the sun and atmosphere that this gorgeous afternoon had to offer. Reading the paper, enjoying a cappuccino or some gelato or playing with their dogs or children, these people looked calm and relaxed. We decided that we needed to blend in. With a chocolate gelato in one hand and a bottle of cold water in the other, we did just that. The book I was reading didn’t warrant taking my attention away from the atmosphere around me, so I set it down and went to work on my new hobby of amateur voyeurism as I continued to watch the many different people I was among. So relaxed was I, my eyes slowly began to shut. A 15 minute nap was all I had time for but our 45 minute break was well needed. It gave us the energy to push on and, more importantly, gave us a good perspective of what loitering on a beautifully manicured and landscaped Parisian park felt like. On we went. It had been several hours since we began our trek. We passed the many tour buses that reside in the area where the Obelisk stands and were a bit disappointed to find that the Musée de l'Orangerie (which holds Claude Monet’s Waterlilies) was closed for over a year. Although I’d be lying if I said Steve was bothered, this was one of the things I wanted to see. Moving on, we saw a pyramid in the distance. Yes, a pyramid. It was the famous pyramid entrance to the Louvre. After the tremendous walk that we made, we were presented with the opportunity to enter the preeminent house of art in the entire world. What an option. One we decided to somehow pass on. That would happen on another day as we decided that this beautiful day was not meant to be spent inside. Even inside the Louvre. Maybe we would head to the Marais. Or maybe to St. Germain. It didn’t really matter because we were amongst buildings, parks, avenues and monuments that had a wealth of historical significance. And most importantly, we were happy. Genuinely happy. Happy to be alive and happy to be blessed enough to see the things we saw on this magnificent day.
City: Paris
‘What a gorgeous day’ was the only thought going through my mind as we came up from the underground Metro station and approached the street. In regards to the weather, you never know if fall will come early in September and bring rain or if the clutches of summer will keep the sun in the sky. It appears that summer won on this day. We looked at our target and then looked at each other, wondering how we would actually get to the Arc. The convergence of who knows how many streets looked like some kind of puzzle we would have to solve. And it didn’t look like an easy puzzle. Surely, there was a defined route. After walking around for 20 minutes like the 2 lost green tourists we were, we finally figured it out. Being in the center of what I believe are 16 converging streets that surround a tremendous monument is quite amazing. You could actually see many near accidents happen and we even were ‘lucky’ enough to see one come to fruition. The climb to the top of the Arc was a bit more challenging than either Steve or I had anticipated. However, once we reached the top and got a glimpse of the view it provided, we knew that every step was well worth it. What an incredible view. With the Eiffel Tower in the distance and the Champs Elysees in front of us, there wasn’t much that words could do to describe the perspective we had at this point in time. We didn’t know what to stare at longer. It was hard to lose either way. However, I was particularly taken by the Champs Elysees and the view down the street. Stores, buildings, and monuments in the distance that I knew we would walk past in the very near future. In addition to the Champs, I was also focused on the 16 streets that converge at the Arc. The possibility for an accident in this area is truly amazing. What is even more amazing is the fact that there seems to be no real defined driving path on these streets. I mean, I am not sure at all what constitutes a lane in this area. It seems to me that it is more just a matter of looking over your shoulder and doing your very best to make sure you weren’t going to collide with the car next to you. All I can say is that I’m glad I didn’t have to attempt to drive in this mess. After taking in what seemed to be an hour’s worth of views, we eventually began our walk down the grandest of streets. I had a warm feeling in my stomach. Not too many days come around that are as perfect as this one and I wanted to treasure every moment of it. As we began to walk, I quickly felt my stomach grumble as we passed by one street side café after another. Steve and I decided that Vesuvio, an Italian Bistro that was actually recommended in our Rick Steves’ travel guide, was worth giving a try. As much as I wanted to settle into a dish in a typical Parisian café, hunger won out and we decided there would be more than enough time for French café cuisine later. Our pizzas and Cokes were nothing glamorous, but the view from our sidewalk table was. We enjoyed an hour and a half lunch and most of that time was spent watching the many people who passed by on this gorgeous day. With such a beautiful day upon us in such a special place, I really couldn’t have named a spot I would rather be at this particular time. We took the time in and didn’t want to let it go. A smile was brought to my face when a Parisian gentleman holding his two daughters hands passed me. I can honestly say that if a world is a book waiting to be opened, this may be page one. And if it’s not page one, it’s definitely in the Table of Contents somewhere. After lunch, we began our walk towards the monuments and buildings we saw earlier from the Arc. What a wonderful walk it was. We saw some magnificent shops, and took a minute or two to peer into one of Paris’s most famous cabaret clubs, Lido. I felt like a child in a candy store during this walk as I crossed the street time and time again. A few times, I stopped in the middle of a median separating the two lanes of traffic to absorb the view and snap a photograph in one direction and then the next. As we walked, I gazed into the windows of seemingly every store and, despite my full stomach, checked every menu I saw studiously as you never know when a craving will come calling. Laughing at myself, it occurred to me that the average Parisian would have found my behavior to be pretty strange. I can’t imagine working in an office building on this street. Even the most serious businessman during his busiest time would have to find it tough to turn down the prospect of a lunchtime stroll on the Champs. As we continued to stroll along, Steve and I found ourselves among all things, a perfume store. Sephora it was called and I must say, it was impressive as hell. Wall to wall perfume for every taste and desire no matter what it may be. After browsing around for some time for perfume for my Mom and my sister, I decided 15 different sprays of various scents on my arm were samples enough, so I gave up and picked 2. Impressed as I was, it was time to move on. I didn’t come to Paris to waste a beautiful day like today in a perfume store, no matter how special it was. The stroll down the grandest of avenues continued and the people watching did also until we eventually found ourselves firmly planted in a sunny café with a nice coffee in hand. This was not only a relaxing break but a scenic one as well. Being that we were nearing the end of the tree lined portion of this street before the garden area begins; the view of the Arc was overwhelming at this point. The way the Arc stands, with its presence, at the end of the street amongst gorgeous trees in full bloom is unbelievable. It exhibits power, stature, elegance and the satisfaction of being a Parisian. The garden area we continued into next was no less impressive. A park area was welcome after our endeavor down such a busy street. We needed this refreshing break. Hundreds upon hundreds of Parisians were enjoying the sun and atmosphere that this gorgeous afternoon had to offer. Reading the paper, enjoying a cappuccino or some gelato or playing with their dogs or children, these people looked calm and relaxed. We decided that we needed to blend in. With a chocolate gelato in one hand and a bottle of cold water in the other, we did just that. The book I was reading didn’t warrant taking my attention away from the atmosphere around me, so I set it down and went to work on my new hobby of amateur voyeurism as I continued to watch the many different people I was among. So relaxed was I, my eyes slowly began to shut. A 15 minute nap was all I had time for but our 45 minute break was well needed. It gave us the energy to push on and, more importantly, gave us a good perspective of what loitering on a beautifully manicured and landscaped Parisian park felt like. On we went. It had been several hours since we began our trek. We passed the many tour buses that reside in the area where the Obelisk stands and were a bit disappointed to find that the Musée de l'Orangerie (which holds Claude Monet’s Waterlilies) was closed for over a year. Although I’d be lying if I said Steve was bothered, this was one of the things I wanted to see. Moving on, we saw a pyramid in the distance. Yes, a pyramid. It was the famous pyramid entrance to the Louvre. After the tremendous walk that we made, we were presented with the opportunity to enter the preeminent house of art in the entire world. What an option. One we decided to somehow pass on. That would happen on another day as we decided that this beautiful day was not meant to be spent inside. Even inside the Louvre. Maybe we would head to the Marais. Or maybe to St. Germain. It didn’t really matter because we were amongst buildings, parks, avenues and monuments that had a wealth of historical significance. And most importantly, we were happy. Genuinely happy. Happy to be alive and happy to be blessed enough to see the things we saw on this magnificent day.
Florentine Beauty
By Chris Sarcletti
City: Florence
I remember the day as if it was yesterday. That face. That profile. Who could forget that kind of beauty? Not I. It was our second night of three in the wonderful city of Florence. The bar we were in, Bar Amadeus, was ironically a bar we had also stumbled into a night earlier. Actually, the fact that we ended up at the same venue 2 nights in a row was not so much of a coincidence after all. To start with, we both thoroughly liked the name of the bar. However, that is a very small part of the reason. We were looking to go somewhere and Carlos mentioned that heading back to Bar Amadeus might be a good idea. I quickly nodded and flashed a smile. I was just hoping that the waitress we saw the night before would be working again. As we walked in, I immediately identified her. I had noticed this gorgeous woman a night earlier when, unbeknownst to her, my male gaze was clearly fixed on her and grew more penetrating after a few cocktails. She wasn’t the typical Italian beauty you envision. At least not the one envisaged by an American who has never set foot in the country that claims his heritage. I guess my imagination said olive skin and dark hair and dark eyes. Sophia Loren. This woman had sandy blond hair. She had wonderful features and gorgeous blue eyes. Her eyes were like pools of blue water. She had an innocent look to her that amplified her beauty two fold. It was almost as if she didn’t know just how stunning she was. She had a petite body type and was curvaceous. She was as perfect as it gets from a physical perspective. We weren’t lucky enough to have her serve our table last night. We hoped that luck would turn our way on this evening. The cocktails we had after dinner provided a nice euphoric feeling that ran through our bodies as we sat in Bar Amadeus. On top of our good spirits, the angel we met the previous evening was working in our area and, more specifically, was handling our table. After staring at the drink menu for some time, she arrived and took our order. I felt as if I couldn’t even look at her for that long, as I didn’t want to stare too much. Carlos was in the same place I was as he found her just as attractive although I was much more expressive concerning my feelings. I think we were both feeling quite free and easy on this evening as Carlos decided that he thought it would be a great idea for me to ask our beautiful waitress to have dinner with me on the following evening. I guess I must have been feeling quite elated myself because I actually considered his proposition. I guess that is not all that odd. However, given the fact that the only Italian phrases I could recite would need to be read from a phrase guide, this was not the best set of circumstances to ask the best looking girl in a crowded bar on a date who happened to be working at the time. After another drink or two that were accompanied by some nice smiles from our waitress, Carlos's idea that he wouldn’t let go of began to become quite intriguing. Carlos said that he thought that she might find it cute if I read out of an Italian phrase book, “Will you have dinner with me?” I guess I kind of agreed with him although I was doubtful that she would find it cute enough to actually say yes. As I glanced through the phrase book, she approached our table as our glasses were nearly empty. Without thinking, I read the phrase from the book. I said it and it was cute, if I don't say so myself. She responded with a very warm smile that seemed to want to say yes. It really did. However, the words that followed were not in agreement with her smile. She said, in broken English, “I have a boyfriend, but thanks anyway.” This was certainly not a surprising response given her ravishing beauty. However, the beautiful smile I received in response to my question was gratification enough. In a weird way, I felt a sense of accomplishment in having the courage to actually say something since that is a bit out of character for me. It’s not often when you have the opportunity to be in the presence of such unsurpassed beauty. How I wish I spoke Italian in a city filled with such beautiful women. One after the other they passed me on the streets of Florence during my three days there. In Florence, where the gelato, wine and food are simply divine, nothing can compare to the exquisite beauty of the angel who once served drinks at a venue named Bar Amadeus.
City: Florence
I remember the day as if it was yesterday. That face. That profile. Who could forget that kind of beauty? Not I. It was our second night of three in the wonderful city of Florence. The bar we were in, Bar Amadeus, was ironically a bar we had also stumbled into a night earlier. Actually, the fact that we ended up at the same venue 2 nights in a row was not so much of a coincidence after all. To start with, we both thoroughly liked the name of the bar. However, that is a very small part of the reason. We were looking to go somewhere and Carlos mentioned that heading back to Bar Amadeus might be a good idea. I quickly nodded and flashed a smile. I was just hoping that the waitress we saw the night before would be working again. As we walked in, I immediately identified her. I had noticed this gorgeous woman a night earlier when, unbeknownst to her, my male gaze was clearly fixed on her and grew more penetrating after a few cocktails. She wasn’t the typical Italian beauty you envision. At least not the one envisaged by an American who has never set foot in the country that claims his heritage. I guess my imagination said olive skin and dark hair and dark eyes. Sophia Loren. This woman had sandy blond hair. She had wonderful features and gorgeous blue eyes. Her eyes were like pools of blue water. She had an innocent look to her that amplified her beauty two fold. It was almost as if she didn’t know just how stunning she was. She had a petite body type and was curvaceous. She was as perfect as it gets from a physical perspective. We weren’t lucky enough to have her serve our table last night. We hoped that luck would turn our way on this evening. The cocktails we had after dinner provided a nice euphoric feeling that ran through our bodies as we sat in Bar Amadeus. On top of our good spirits, the angel we met the previous evening was working in our area and, more specifically, was handling our table. After staring at the drink menu for some time, she arrived and took our order. I felt as if I couldn’t even look at her for that long, as I didn’t want to stare too much. Carlos was in the same place I was as he found her just as attractive although I was much more expressive concerning my feelings. I think we were both feeling quite free and easy on this evening as Carlos decided that he thought it would be a great idea for me to ask our beautiful waitress to have dinner with me on the following evening. I guess I must have been feeling quite elated myself because I actually considered his proposition. I guess that is not all that odd. However, given the fact that the only Italian phrases I could recite would need to be read from a phrase guide, this was not the best set of circumstances to ask the best looking girl in a crowded bar on a date who happened to be working at the time. After another drink or two that were accompanied by some nice smiles from our waitress, Carlos's idea that he wouldn’t let go of began to become quite intriguing. Carlos said that he thought that she might find it cute if I read out of an Italian phrase book, “Will you have dinner with me?” I guess I kind of agreed with him although I was doubtful that she would find it cute enough to actually say yes. As I glanced through the phrase book, she approached our table as our glasses were nearly empty. Without thinking, I read the phrase from the book. I said it and it was cute, if I don't say so myself. She responded with a very warm smile that seemed to want to say yes. It really did. However, the words that followed were not in agreement with her smile. She said, in broken English, “I have a boyfriend, but thanks anyway.” This was certainly not a surprising response given her ravishing beauty. However, the beautiful smile I received in response to my question was gratification enough. In a weird way, I felt a sense of accomplishment in having the courage to actually say something since that is a bit out of character for me. It’s not often when you have the opportunity to be in the presence of such unsurpassed beauty. How I wish I spoke Italian in a city filled with such beautiful women. One after the other they passed me on the streets of Florence during my three days there. In Florence, where the gelato, wine and food are simply divine, nothing can compare to the exquisite beauty of the angel who once served drinks at a venue named Bar Amadeus.
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