Strange Trip

I should probably post more here, eh?

Feeling barren, I open the tap of life to let a story come, and I become swamped in endless floodwaters.

Sometimes I stop and consider, ‘what a long strange trip it’s been’. This is a pleasant thought, not least because the phrase is a lyric in Truckin’ from the Grateful Dead, which is quite a nice song. Here’s that nice number.

At the beginning of 2019, and before for that matter, I declared I needed changes. And changes I begot this year. I look at my feet, and I notice I am waring sandals in December. It was a rather warm day – much more so than last week, but I find I am also in Hanoi, thousands of miles, and slightly more thousands kms from home (where December means bare skin goes in the box for the winter), and no direction home.

I’m also waring a fairly nice pair of pants and shirt. Like 90% of the anglophone, whom I often catch in hair of the dog and canine of the cannabis mode on my daily sojourns (we’ll return to dog sports later), I’ve taken the practical line of teaching English to earn my keep, although my one male Vietnamese colleague at the school, I recently discovered, frequently sports a t-shirt. I suppose he’s also waring ski boots.

               Here am I. When modern tech does me some good, I am wont to remind myself that most of the operations that were done for me digitally likely could have been done through talking to people, at least when that was socially acceptable, which it probably is. Whatever.

Apps on my phone have uncovered little treasures in my neighborhood of late. First is a little Jazz bar less than 9 minutes of un-strenuous walking from my apt. With a brief break from work in play, I followed the directions, and poof! Actually, I was, I figured, almost right in front of the place, though I could see it was rather dark and quiet. Plus, a dog was barking at me (*). Not great signs when combined.

After confirming the address with a passerby, I got the attention of an employee at the bar, and was escorted to a table, where Jon, the South African-born proprietor sat. Sporting an air of George Harrison and of Tommy Chong in his voice, Jon, (who I would discover is one of the most notable virtuoso Jazz guit-fiddlers around here) introduced me to his musical collaborator for the night, Russian via Chicago (with touches of Brazil) singer Lidia. I was also introduced to Rosy the golden retriever, the one that barked at me, who was already contritely leaning on my leg and receiving itches. Rosy’s not barked at me from then on, although I don’t think I’m the only man in her life. Barking, even from a friendly dog is not surprising from my end around here. Sadly, my cane surely resembles something dog’s I’ve encountered have been struck or threatened with. Rosy’s the first dog I’ve had the pleasure of getting to schmooze with round about Hanoi. There’s evidently a lack of Jewish dogs.

               Since then I’ve attended several jams and open mics, and have increasingly engrossed myself in the ex-pat dominated Tay Ho music scene. All I had to do is type in Jazz on an app on my phone, and well – I did ask about places before hand – oh well. Human contact is becoming obsolete, which is why we have dogs.

--Speaking of Language--

               Sadly, it seems only a small minority of folks in the expat land either understand or hope to understand the predominate language of their host country. I realize that most can read English labels and menus, view objects they want from a distance, find locations they seek with their eyes from down a crowded alley, yatta yatta. Things I rely on language to do. Seems like a nice thing would be to learn Tinh Viet.

It is a fairly interesting bunch, this expat crowd. Many Irish, British, and especially South African folk have shown up lately. Unlike in previous, less settled sojourns to Vietnam in 2012 and 2016, I’ve not knowingly seen Canadians yet, but I have not just spotted, but befriended a U.S. American. Similarly, I recently purchased a guitar from an English teacher from Mexico. He seemed vastly fluent to say the least, although it appears a pretty vast array of non-anglophone nationalities are represented among the English-teaching set. The wandering Irish stoner, the Irish gamer, the fella that edited English content for Xin Hua, the Belarussian English teacher, the Dutch English (of course) teacher, the Latvian news editor, the trailing spouse from the states, the Singapore sax slinger, the Filipino fella that talked to me for a while… all you have more stories I’m sure. I should probably acquaint myself with this here country’s folk a bit more as well.

               Speaking of stories, after relocating to the cheap bottom floor apartment in my pencil-thin six-story building, I discovered I’m the only one in the structure not from South Africa. Even did some jamming with one. I’m on to them I tells ya. They can’t just come and run the country like it’s North South Africa, even though they’ve lived here much longer than I, and they’re mostly rather friendly.

               My head has stopped spinning for a moment, so I shall wind it up, and check in later.