Boom-Boom and Orwell

Scene 1: Ba Lan. I get a call from my Texan friend. She is having drinks with a Dutch lady and an Englishman. She gives me the address. On the way out I have to give my land lady a piece of paper saying when I will be back so she doesn't lock me out. Where am I going? Oh, Nha Tho, but I don't say it right. This leads to a Vietnamese lesson conducted mostly in broken English and French which ends in me having to look at pictures of Ba Lan (Grandma Lan, my landlady) at Euro Disney with her sister, daughter, and daughter's father-in-law. 

Scene 2: Xe Om to Nha Tho, which is next to the Cathedral. I overpay, of course, because I am Tay (foreigner) and it is late.

Scene 3: Salsa. I'm at a expensive restaurant that is classified as Mexican only because it serves tapas, Sangria, and tortillas. Everything else is French and expensive. We talk about the weird things our students do and say. Sarah has a seven year old student who removes his shoes and socks and dances in class every chance he can. I have students who constantly, innocently ask me what certain Ebonics words and general profanity mean. 

Scene 4: Attack of the Boom-Boom girls! Walking away from the restaurant in search of a xe om I am surrounded by four prostitutes. One hand on my wallet and one fending them away I shrug off their questions (where you from?) and their so handsomes, so strongs and giggles. I stare at the ground. They leave, make a second pass on motorbikes yelling Tay! as if I didn't know already that I'm a foreigner.

Scene 5: The Friendly Xe Om. All negotiation must take place with an exaggerated face. He says nam Muoi! (50 thousand dong) I have a big surprised face. Bun Muoi! (40) completely depressed face. Hai Muoi! a gentle pleased face. He asks me, en route, where I'm from in Vietnamese. I'm able to answer. This obviously means I'm fluent in Vietnamese and much follows. All of which I answer with either pleased grunts, my address, Obama!, or 'I have no idea what you are saying.' Nothing phases him. At 20 kilometers an hour we go down the street shouting Obama! together. He tries to charge me double, I refuse, he thinks this is all very funny.

Scene 6: I open my thankfully not bolted door just as the Orwell truck goes by at midnight. In Vietnamese, I am told, the truck's recording blares on speaker phones, "Why are you up at this hour? You have work tomorrow! You must get up and be productive for you family and the Republic!"