How to have the Ultimate Italian Gelato Experience

What you do is you take a Starbucks model:

And bring her to HaMy Sophie Ice Cream From Europe at 1A Tràng Tiền St., hotline: 04.35149253. Then buy her one scoop of Ice Cream From Europe (preferably vanilla flavored, price $0.50) and plop it into her coffee. 

Voila! You have just created the

!!

There is a profound thought here, actually, and it is this: So much of advertising strives to make your life look boring and incomplete and so, by way of contrast, make the product look exciting and fulfilling. But what if we turned this concept on its head? What if we went about "advertising" our own lives instead? What if we chose to see the little things in our lives as exciting and fulfilling and so, by way of contentment, make much of the commercial advertising around us utterly superfluous? 

What if a simple combination of coffee, vanilla ice cream, and a friend was all you needed to have the Ultimate Italian Gelato Experience?

They weren't any better than us

For Vietnamese New Year, Calah, Alicia, and I went to the great, the awe-inspiring, the one and only tourist-ridden Angkor Wat.


On the first day we decided we'd watch the sunset from atop one of the temple-mountains. Climbing up that old, old rock face, I could hardly help but have a few thoughts. First thought: Ancient Angkorians were obviously very fit.
And upon reaching the top, second thought: Holy cow that's a lot of tourists.
How am I supposed to have my epic Angkor Wat sunset experience with all these people here cramping my style? How am I supposed to take pictures of exotic landscapes with modern people in the way?

And it happened like that all week until it started to seem a little ridiculous. People were constantly stepping into each others' photos and then apologizing, like if Grandma saw your pictures from vacation and there was anybody in the picture she didn't know she would cut you out of her will. Or if your friends found out that there were actual tourists at Angkor Wat (never mind that you yourself are one) suddenly they would recognize you for the Lame Poser you really are.

So then I had a third thought to chew on for the rest of the week: Why do we love to pretend that we are the only tourists here?

I think part of it comes from Western individualism. We like to think of ourselves as independent, as pioneers. We don't like to be reminded that we are not the first, and definitely not the last, and most certainly not the most important individuals ever to see this amazing place.

And a (perhaps related) component is the desire for the exotic. We don't normally like to travel for long distances in cramped quarters only to see other people just like us. (Though of course, we do still want food that is palatable to us and hotels that are safe and clean and have pools like our hotels at home.)

But I think the most powerful reason is the sneaking suspicion that ancient peoples were so much cooler than people like us. I mean, what's the modern American equivalent of Angkor Wat? The White House? Lame.  The Mall of America? Ugh. Gag me with a spoon. And not only are modern structures not as cool, but they won't even last for half as long as Angkor already has—and they didn't even have the luxury of fork lifts back then! Yessiree, we tourists are major lame and ashamed of it.

But while that may be true, there's probably another side to the story. Looking at the heavy slabs of stone I was struck by the sheer amount of manpower required to build just one of the hundreds of monuments that populate the ancient capital of the Angkor kingdom. Who provided all that labor? Probably slaves, or serfs who were as good as slaves. Who could command such a great effort from his people? Only a despot.

King Jayawarman VII, despot extraordinaire

And even if their monuments are still standing, the fact remains that their empire eventually collapsed, just like every other empire since the invention of history. Just like modern Western hegemony will someday also kick the bucket.  

The urge to romanticize the ancient peoples of foreign lands is completely understandable. Life in the 21st century just feels so ordinary. But even if ancient Angkorians were really cool, I don't think that it means they were necessarily any better than us. They probably would have had a few things to teach us, for sure, but it's not like history has made zero progress since they disappeared from the stage. Things like women's rights and the 8-hour work day are only a few of the may perqs of being a modern-day human. 

So the next time you feel guilty for being a WASP or a suburbanite or some other totally lame, over-privileged segment of the population, just remember Angkor and realize that, the way history works, someone is always gaining power at the expense of others, and the only thing you have control over is what you do with the position you have been given in this mess. History is not your game to play, it's your own life that's yours to play.

So peace out!

They weren't any better than us

For Vietnamese New Year, Calah, Alicia, and I went to the great, the awe-inspiring, the one and only tourist-ridden Angkor Wat.


On the first day we decided we'd watch the sunset from atop one of the temple-mountains. Climbing up that old, old rock face, I could hardly help but have a few thoughts. First thought: Ancient Angkorians were obviously very fit.
And upon reaching the top, second thought: Holy cow that's a lot of tourists.
How am I supposed to have my epic Angkor Wat sunset experience with all these people here cramping my style? How am I supposed to take pictures of exotic landscapes with other white people who look just like me in the way?

And it happened like that all week until it started to seem a little ridiculous. People were constantly stepping into each others' photos and then apologizing, like if Grandma saw your pictures from vacation and there was anybody in the picture she didn't know she would cut you out of her will. Or if your friends found out that there were actual tourists at Angkor Wat (never mind that you yourself are one) suddenly they would recognize you for the Lame Poser you really are.

So then I had a third thought to chew on for the rest of the week: Why do we love to pretend that we are the only tourists here?

I think part of it comes from Western individualism. We like to think of ourselves as independent, as pioneers. We don't like to be reminded that we are not the first, and definitely not the last, and most certainly not the most important individuals ever to see this amazing place.

And a (perhaps related) component is the desire for the exotic. We don't normally like to travel for long distances in cramped quarters only to see other people just like us. (Though of course, we do still want food that is palatable to us and hotels that are safe and clean and have pools like our hotels at home.)

But I think the most powerful reason is the sneaking suspicion that ancient peoples were so much cooler than people like us. I mean, what's the modern American equivalent of Angkor Wat? The White House? Lame.  The Mall of America? Ugh. Gag me with a spoon. And not only are modern structures not as cool, but they won't even last for half as long as Angkor already has—and they didn't even have the luxury of fork lifts back then! Yessiree, we tourists are major lame and ashamed of it.

But while that may be true, there's probably another side to the story. Looking at the heavy slabs of stone I was struck by the sheer amount of manpower required to build just one of the hundreds of monuments that populate the ancient capital of the Angkor kingdom. Who provided all that labor? Probably slaves, or serfs who were as good as slaves. Who could command such a great effort from his people? Only a despot.

King Jayawarman VII, despot extraordinaire

And even if their monuments are still standing, the fact remains that their empire eventually collapsed, just like every other empire since the invention of history. Just like modern Western hegemony will someday also kick the bucket.  

The urge to romanticize the ancient peoples of foreign lands is completely understandable. Life in the 21st century just feels so ordinary. But even if ancient Angkorians were really cool, I don't think that it means they were necessarily any better than us. They probably would have had a few things to teach us, for sure, but it's not like history has made zero progress since they disappeared from the stage. Things like women's rights and the 8-hour work day are only a few of the may perqs of being a modern-day human. 

So the next time you feel guilty for being a WASP or a suburbanite or some other totally lame, over-privileged segment of the population, just remember Angkor and realize that, the way history works, someone is always gaining power at the expense of others, and the only thing you have control over is what you do with the position you have been given in this mess. History is not your game to play, it's your own life that's yours to play.

So peace out!

Slippery Green Leaves of Grace

The spring rain has begun. I heard it falling and splashing under motorcycle tires from my bed this morning. Naturally I was not looking forward to being wet and cold and most likely late for work because the buses are always overloaded on rainy days. But for some reason, when I left the house, umbrella in hand, what I noticed was not the mud in the gutters or the puddles or the dripping hem of my left shirtsleeve, but rather the way the rain made all the branches of the trees black and the leaves a slick and vivid green.

The reason for this happy turn of events was that as I was walking to the bus stop I saw that the gate of Hà Pagoda was open and decided to step inside, buses and work be damned.

Perhaps the fact that I've lived for a year and a half in a city of four million honking scooters has eroded my standards for quiet. Or perhaps there really is something about a walled garden, incense, a fishpond, and rain falling on a tiled courtyard that is more silent than silence. In either case, the effect was the same: I began to settle down. And since praying is what you do in a pagoda, I started to pray. And as I prayed, I was given a gift.

As I watched the incense float heavily off into the wet air, the gift I received was the realization that this is not about me. Yesterday was not about me, or what I did, or how much fun I had with my friends last night. Today is not about me, or the long soggy commute to the office ahead of me, or the computer I will sit in front of when I finally get there. And tomorrow is most certainly not about me either, or about the pain and pleasure I will experience then. And because it is not about me, I am free to notice the world for what it is, rather than for the obstacles it puts in my path. I am free to notice the color of the leaves in rain.

I cannot put into words what a relief it was to remember this, what a relief it is every time I truly pray to remember that I am not the center of the universe, nor the master of my own destiny. So I won't try. Let it suffice to say simply that I walked through an open door like grace and received there the eyes to see the true color of things. The true color of my small self, and the true color of this majestic, sopping wet, slippery green world made by God.

G-nam

It started with google search.vn, then came gmail, googledocs, and blogger in Vietnamese, and now it's gotten as far as google maps. Vietnam has joined the g-world.

Here is a very pretty picture of G-noi. And for a really surreal experience, check out the satellite view where you can almost see my house on hong mai street. Creepy.

But this is a recent development. A few months ago when I needed to figure out how to get to the central post office, I instinctively sought out google maps, innocently assuming that the g-minions had gone ahead of me photoing, labeling, and uploading every last inch of this city.

I was forced to return to my well-worn analog version.

The only thing google maps had to say about Hanoi included a few major streets and a pink hot air balloon labeled "A" where, presumably, the precise center of Hanoi was located. This caused me a fair bit of anxiety. How was I going to find anything? What if I got lost, would I actually have to talk to someone? If the city of Hanoi didn't exist in virtual form, could I be sure it existed in reality?




= REAL?






And this epistemological concern gave way to another, related question, namely, why do I feel the need for a digital map? Why can't I feel comfortable in a city unless it has already been explored, cataloged, pre-chewed and regurgitated, as it were, for me?

I think that the anxiety stems from my fear of making mistakes, of making a wrong turn, of looking like a fool. But that's what the Bible calls us to be. Fools. Not people who know what we are doing or even where we are going every step of the way. Christians are not called to be impeccable; we're called to love our neighbors as ourselves.

No one likes to make mistakes, but the simple fact is that mistakes are one of the most effective learning tools. And what did I come here for, anyways? To be perfect? No way! I came here to learn about a new culture, a new language, and about myself and God, too. So let's get out there and start making some mistakes!

I began this post with my discovery of the brand-new g-version of Hanoi now available, but what I discovered soon after is that I don't actually need it. Within the first month of being here, I already knew how to get to work, to school, to the MCC office, and home, and more importantly, I knew that if I got lost it was actually not the end of the world. Are you listening, google? Because if you are, you can take this as my declaration of independence. I don't need you. I can find it on my own.

And to prove it, here is a list of several places that I discovered before you did.

1. My workplace, Thế Giới Publishers (the building with the v-shaped roof)
2. My place of study
   
3. My favorite coffee shop, Puku (letter B)
4. My favorite bookstore, the Bookworm (actually, google, you got it wrong. It's been moved to Yến Thế street.)
5. My favorite museum, the National Arts Museum
6. My favorite pagoda, Trân Quốc
   

The list goes on, and on, and on...

And this goes for you, too, friend. If you find yourself depending on Google to do your living for you, take it from me: you don't need it. Google and all its functions are a nice tool for getting some work done fast. But it's just a tool. You still have the right to exercise your free will while you are using that tool. And if you happen to make a mistake with your free will...well, that's what grace is all about.

Who wants to be a millionaire?

Tết, the Vietnamese lunar new year, and the country's most important holiday by far, was celebrated this year on January 26. Click here to see how I rang in 2009, year of the buffalo.

Being born a buffalo (or ox) myself I was very much looking forward to this particular year. I was, perhaps, even a little inordinately proud of my achievement of having been born in the year 1985--until, of course, a friend informed me that the buffalo, being a slow, hardworking animal, is generally seen as an augury of hard economic times--and my bubble was duly burst.

Like Christmas in the good ol' US of A, Tết is accompanied by its fair share of consumer-driven frenzy. Nevertheless, the pitch never rises to quite the level of, say, 5:30am at Best Buy the day after Thanksgiving. Fear not, Americans, you are still the unquestioned champions of world capitalism.

For example, rather than giving individual gifts, Vietnamese families often buy something for the whole family, such as a better (i.e., bigger) refrigerator (see exhibit 1) in the case of my host family.

For friends of the family, common gifts include cookies, giò (Vietnamese sausage) and the traditional bánh trưng (ingredients: pounded sticky rice, mung bean paste, pork fat, banana leaf wrapping; exhibits 2 and 3 show the cake wrapped and unwrapped, respectively). Right solid peasant fare that, designed to put extra flesh on the body with the highest degree of efficiency possible.



One exception to the general non-individual-gift-giving rule is the practice of giving lucky money to children and, occasionally, to elders. These gifts are usually handed over in the presence of the whole family with or without a pretty envelope to conceal the total amount given.

Upon learning of this, my delicate North American sensibilities were a bit jarred at first. What, you mean you just fork out cold cash? You mean no wish lists? No secrecy? No midnight wrapping whirlwinds or breathless trips to the third mall of the day to find that perfect gift that will let her know this year you really truly do understand her deepest wants-needs?

But then common sense made her blessed entrance and I came to the following four realizations:

1. Giving straight-up cash saves a lot of wasted presents, not to mention relational stress and forced thanks-for-the-socks-grandma smiles.
2. A related point: since gifts range from vnđ10,000 ($0.57) to vnđ200,000 ($11), in the end, less money is spent.
3. Even if you can count exactly how much lucky money you're worth to uncle Tien as he hands it to you, by the end of the day the envelopes and loose cash are so mixed up it's hard to remember who gave you how much.
4. With an exchange rate of 17,000 VN đồng = $1 U.S., I realized that by the end of the first day of Tết I had become a millionaire.
   

Perhaps my new found wealth has gotten to my head; nevertheless, despite the direful predictions of economic experts world over, I have a good feeling about this year. If Valentine's day and the February blues have got you down, why not consider hopping on a plane to sunny Vietnam, snagging a job as an English teacher, and becoming a millionaire in a matter of weeks? It would certainly change your perspective--by about 195 degrees Longitude to be exact.

Chúc Mừng Năm Mới - Happy New Year

Happy Christmas (war is over) in Vietnam!

This is my Christmas message. Also please see my Christmas photos: Part I, and Part II

After a month or more of silence I am writing to wish you a belated Merry Christmas and to tell you a little about mine in hopes that it will encourage you this season.

A few days before Christmas, Rosie and I went to Hue in Central Vietnam, where we met up with her dad Dennis and Max Eddiger, an MCC worker who also happens to be an old friend of Dennis. Among other sightseeing, we visited the DMZ (demilitarized zone) which marked the separation between North and South Vietnam during what the Vietnamese call "the American War." DMZ is actually kind of a misnomer. During the war this zone was flattened by bombing and laid waste by chemical defoliants. It was anything but demilitarized.

We also visited an underground network of tunnels dug by a Vietnamese village trying to hide from the bombing. The tunnels included family rooms (one meter square), a schoolroom/meeting hall, and a maternity ward where seventeen babies were born. (The maternity ward was 2 meters deep, 1 meter wide, and 1.5 meters high.) In the museums we saw pictures of terrified American soldiers and wounded Vietnamese. We saw twisted metal that was once airplanes and bomb casings. I was born in 1985, so it is hard for me to understand that era, but during that trip the fact of war in this beautiful country became clearer and more real in my mind.

Back in Hanoi, it was at the back of my mind as we sat down to Christmas dinner. There were some friends of ours eager to meet Dennis and compare stories with him. As they chatted over the same table and shared the same meal, something else became clear to me: the war is over. Not just the fighting, the war. How else could it be possible for people from former enemy states to come together like this? How else could it seem so natural? The greatest wound of war--that is, the hate of one people towards another, the dehumanization of the enemy--this has finally healed.

As I sat there I suddenly
became aware that the carols we had been listening to had given way to a song by John Lennon whose words I was now feeling more deeply than ever, "Happy Christmas, war is over."

Christmas was yesterday and new wars are now being fought in other parts of the world. But be of good cheer, the Prince of Peace is born and he will wipe away every tear. May the thought of Vietnam, that little green country now at peace, encourage you in this hope.

Your friend and sister in Christ,
Hannah