"I'm Not The Same"

If you know me at all, you'd know that I kinda hate poetry. Especially if it rhymes. But here's a poem written by a Semester at Sea alum that my resident director, Terrie Tran, read to the Bering Sea at our last (and very heartfelt) final meeting. It sums everything up pretty darn well. So as I go on into my final days on the MV Explorer, between all the finals and packing and preparation, I hope to reflect just like this.


"IʼM NOT THE SAME."
By Natalie Lou Ritter

Forgive me, Mom, Iʼm Not the Same
I think you knew that I would change
I couldnʼt stay so long at sea
And not come home a different me.

Iʼve been to the Mekong; the Amazon, too
The things that Iʼve done: if only you knew.
Iʼve paraglided in the Andes Mountains
Said a prayer at Hiroshima fountains
Iʼve jumped off of cliffs down river gorges
And from the Ganges saw burning corpses
Iʼve seen the Taj; Climbed the Great Wall
Iʼve Jumped Out of Planes; Iʼve done it All
Climbed to the Golden Rock in Myanmar
I Donʼt think I ever have climbed that far.
Monasteries, Pagodas, Temples and Shrines
Horseback riding in Stellenbosch; sampling wines
I dove with sharks and jumped off a bridge
I Forced Myself to Really Live.

Sure, All these things can be relayed
In the photo albums thatʼll be displayed
But to convey all this will be demanding—
Experience is Nothing Without Understanding.

So Forgive me, Mom, if I Start To Cry
For all of the things I really canʼt describe:
Walking next to dead bodies in the road
Not reaching out to a childʼs hand to hold.
The people in poverty and those afraid to speak
For fear if they do, theyʼll be in jail the next week
Because their government has such a watchful eye.
All the people with AIDS, getting ready to die.
The beggars in India who walk on their hands
Because theyʼre diseased and unable to stand
And the people in shacks who sleep inches apart
Offer only a smile and it rips out my heart

Iʼve seen beauty and devastation
Iʼve felt sorrow; Iʼve felt elation
Iʼve seen birth and Iʼve felt death;
Forgive me, Mom, but what is left?

So if you could, Mom, just give me time
When I come home, let me unwind
I need a moment to just. Stand. Still.
Please understand (Iʼm sure you will)

I couldnʼt stay so long at sea
And not come home a different me
So long as I change, the world changes, too
But be proud, Mom, because I came from you.

Hello Hilo

My time in Hilo was very short-lived.  It was one of our "pit stop" ports: we were there for only about 10 hours to recharge.  You can only imagine that you gotta stop somewhere while crossing the Pacific Ocean.

The story starts when we arrived in Honolulu the previous day.  We were docked there in the morning to refuel and go through immigrations.  While we were docked in Honolulu, we were not permitted to leave the ship, so everyone was on the top deck getting some sun and (supposedly) studying for upcoming finals.  Since we were on American soil, our cellphones were picking up reception.  It had seemed like people's phones had just risen from the dead, and this resurrected mutant zombie phone surgically attached itself to each person's ear the entire time at port.  I can't pretend like I wasn't a culprit of these things: I am completely sunburned all over because I lost track of time while chatting up a storm on my phone.  It was well worth it, though.  We left for the Big Island that evening and arrived there the following day.

By the looks of Honolulu from the ship, it was a sizable city where palm trees seemed to coexist perfectly with the modern-looking buildings.  Arriving to Hilo the next day looked different.  It was a lot more remote, simple, and demure.  We haven't really seen something of the sort since Port Louis or Kochi.  Of course, it could still be considered a city, depending on your definition of one, and it was chock full of culture.  In my head, it was as if we were still in a different country that was stuck in a time period I'd say was around the '60s.  The only reminder that I was back in the states was the fact that I was using the American dollar.  Other than that, it was incredibly peculiar in the best ways.

Walking around in the small Downtown Hilo area was exciting.  Hilo is one of the wettest places in the world, and the sporadic rain didn't stop the locals from going about their business.  Most of the people were Hawaiian Natives and Asian immigrants, and there was a noticeable population of those I would consider "hipsters," including the cheeky fellow who sold me cleverly named soaps at the Farmer’s Market who looked like he was straight from Williamsburg.  Amidst the Hawaiian handicraft stores were restaurants with cuisines from all around the world: Thailand, China, and Mexico were quite prevalent.  I wish I had more time to peruse the shops and talk to the very interesting vendors at the outdoor market.  The people were so nice, it hurt.

It was a pretty slow day, and I didn't get to do nearly as much as I wanted to do.  I guess by this point in time, I should have just calmed down and decided to just take in the scenery.  I just didn't want to waste such precious time.  I would get antsy when I lost people, but then I realized that I could call them.  It was weird calling to find someone because I've had to rely on trust and patience up until this point when meeting up with people.  At the same time, it was almost calming without my phone; it took me back to the days when everyone wasn't attached to an electronic device with which we could contact a person if we were running late.  I'd like to think that I won't be as reliant on technology once I get back home.

While downtown, I wandered into a quaint guitar shop, and Hayden assisted me in buying a simple beginner’s ukulele. It’s a pretty darn nice souvenir, and because it’s Paul-sized, it’s the perfect instrument.  I definitely need a lot of practice, but don’t be surprised if you’ll be getting a few concerts from me in the future.  Hayden, a seasoned uke player, got his fourth, a hip and resonant Fluke.


Though we were so limited on time, I never would have thought that I would have spent a couple of hours in the back of a parking lot of a loco moco place, but it will probably be my favorite memory of Hilo.  To backtrack, a “loco moco” is a local delight.  If you’re from Rochester, you would compare it to a garbage plate.  It is a dish comprised of a ton of local favorites: a whole bunch of rice, a hamburger patty, an egg, and spam, or anything else really, slathered in a gravy sauce.  Of course, there were a million and a half different variations on the loco moco, and whichever one you may want, Cafe 100 was the place to get it.  Behind Cafe 100 was a beautiful lagoon lined with palm trees that people would have probably considered a normal sight.  It probably would have been likened to a dingy back alleyway in New York City.  Nonetheless, the large expanse behind the parking lot was so picturesque.  Us boys took out out brand new ukuleles and the girls took out their cameras.  Who needs a beach?  We spent two hours just enjoying each other’s company realizing that this was really one of the last times we’d probably be doing this ever.

I felt very comfortable with the Hawaiian sensibility: slow, pleasant, natural, hospitable, and delicious are adjectives that come to mind when I think about it.  These islands have rich cultural roots and the people identify with them very strongly.  However, these roots are not culturally homogenous; they are a harmonious mixture of influences from around the world working together to create a great culture of which I’m jealous I’m not a part.  A tiny sliver of myself would love to move here because it is different and exotic while still quintessentially American.  If I call you in ten years and tell you I've moved to Hawaii, don't be surprised.

As I was getting back on the ship, I realized that it was the last time I'd ever be walking up the stairs to board the MV Explorer.  It was a pretty sad moment.  My journey will be over in less than a week.

Transnational Identities in International Travel: My Global Studies Essay

Throughout my journey around the Golden Triangle of Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur in North India, I was being greeted warmly left and right by swarms of people saying the same thing. “Konichiwa!,” they would yell out at me, and I would simply laugh or smile back in response. They thought I was Japanese. It was quite understandable why they had this assumption: though some would argue that I have some racially ambiguous features, there is no hiding my outwardly Asian appearance. I am of Filipino-American heritage, and even at home in New York, I am no stranger to getting mistakenly labeled as anything but that.

While on the Indian Railways train at the crack of dawn from Delhi to Agra, I was seated next to what seemed like the only other tourists on the entire train: a duo of young, enthusiastic Japanese men. As I sipped on a tiny five rupee cup of steaming hot chai, the Indian family on the other side of the berth interrogated us about our origins and whereabouts as if they were police investigators. They, too, thought that I was Japanese, and I had to debunk their claim of my identity. In a similar fashion, I had questioned them in return. The most important question I asked was why they thought I was Japanese. “It’s a big holiday in Japan, and they’re all here right now. And the Japanese love India, and we love them!” I guess their assumption was pretty valid since I was, in fact, sitting next to two guys who were perfect examples of these statements. Just like many other times along my trek through India, we ended our conversation by taking a few pictures together as proof that we had crossed paths.

Fast-forward to Vietnam where the perception of my nationality was in stark contrast to my experience in India. I was immediately able to tell a difference because, while most hawkers on the street would boast their goods or shove their pamphlets to the typical Eurocentric-looking tourist, I was more often than not spared of that nuisance. There were many times when shopkeepers and other locals would begin speaking to me in Vietnamese, and I would politely gesture to inform them that I was indeed an English-speaking American. Their reactions had a wide range but usually consisted of a combination of confusion, interest, and joy. Confusion about what my true identity was, interest in how that became so, and joy because, for a reason I still do not quite understand, the Vietnamese are extremely fond of Americans despite the troubled and brutal shared history of conflict between the two nations only a few decades ago.

One night when going to a nice restaurant filled with a fair amount of other tourists, I walked into the establishment with a group of other Semester at Sea students. While showing us to our table, the host initiated conversation with me in Vietnamese just as many other locals did. Once again, I went through the little jig I knew all too well about being American. He gasped and began apologizing profusely, “I just thought you were Vietnamese, I’m so sorry!” He went on with this apologetic behavior thinking that he had offended me somehow, though I found it quite flattering. “You look like a Vietnamese,” he kept saying to me in a somewhat pained and frantic tone. He made it known to me that he made an honest mistake, and didn’t want me to feel out of place, awkward, or unwanted in his homeland.

As much and I stood out in the earlier ports, and as much as I seemingly fit in at many of the later ones, I had split feelings about the situation. In every country on the itinerary before Singapore, I wished nothing but to blend in because I didn’t want to be targeted as some kind of ignorant tourist as per Jamaica Kincaid’s description of such a traveler in A Small Place: one who perpetuates exploitative imperialist legacies and diminishes the validity of local sentiments. From Singapore onwards, it felt awkward that all I wanted was the complete opposite of how I felt previously: to differentiate myself as a foreigner because I hated being mistaken as a local somewhere I was clearly out of place. I was an outsider, but I did not want to be defined as solely that. This is the plight of the international traveler with a transnational identity.

The forces of globalization, especially in respect to the movement of people around the world, has complicated notions of identity, whether that be one fashioned by the individual or imposed by a larger group. With this in mind, the idea of national and racial identity begins to blur as people continue to move around. These distinctions become less concrete since one’s location is no longer fixed to a singular place nor is identity defined as a sole ideal. For that matter, not only do we as travelers struggle to fit into the narrow classifications available to us, but even those who we have encountered on our journey are becoming globalized. This just comes to show the ever-growing diversity which we should embrace. Of course, these differences in identities have probably been the root to many of the world’s conflicts, but the acceptance of the plurality of identities has also been a source of pride and a sign of prosperity. We can take post-Apartheid South Africa as an example of a country plagued with a history of racism which is now a vibrant world power in the making. What I know for a fact is that the African principle of ubuntu pervades our lives more than ever. No matter how uniquely we may identify ourselves as individuals, we are all global citizens who share an integral role in the intricate and interconnected web of humanity. 

A Japanoramic View

Japan was one big assault on the senses.

I spent most of my time in Japan in Tokyo.  I had decided that the best approach to traveling was to spend as much time getting comfortable in a single place instead of being somewhere different each day.  I guess you can say that I was getting fatigued by the amount of traveling I’ve done lately, so it was nice to stay put in a single place for a few days.  So instead of making pit stops every day, I decided to go to just one place and stick with it.  Yeah, I’m sure seeing Kobe, Osaka, Kyoto, Nara, Tokyo, and Yokohama would have been great, but that would have been a lot to handle in a short amount of time.

I can proudly say that I am happy about this decision to stay in Tokyo.  The city, to say the least, is incredibly modern with strong roots to an imperial past.  Though in the midst of so much commotion, everything somehow seemed simpler. Well, that’s probably true except for the subway system which could use some edits.  Though I had a Suica card which could be hovered over a scanner at turnstiles in order to get into the system, and for that matter, could also be used to pay for almost anything within the train station such as purchases at convenience stores on the platform, there was no real rhyme or reason to much of the subway.  Don’t even get me started on the horrendous jingles that were blared on the PA system every time an announcement was made.

Clutter and confusion were abound in Tokyo, but it all made sense somehow.  Being a New Yorker, I felt quite at ease, despite the language barrier. All of the lights made me feel at home, and all of the technology at every corner made me forget that I was ever in places where there was no need to ever order noodles (or anything else for that matter) via vending machine.  Even though it was raining for most of the time, and though I still don’t understand the Japanese obsession with clear plastic umbrellas, it was part of the whole experience.  For the most part, I vowed stop trying to understand or analyze too much and just enjoy what was happening.  Plastic replicas of food?  Sure.  Drink machines in every alley way?  Whatevs. Elaborate wardrobe choices?  Fine.  Amazing food at every 7-Eleven?  Delicious.

Tokyo was a city of stark contrasts.  Next to one of the most fashionable and forward places in the world, Harajuku, was the historic Meiji Shrine almost tucked away in an enclave that provided a zen sort of solace that made you forget where you were.  Past the hustle and bustle of one of the largest tourist-trap markets in the Asakusa district was Senso-ji, the oldest Buddhist temple in the entire city.  However, even that distinction is somewhat of a misnomer: the temple was rebuilt after much of it was destroyed during World War II.

This brings up the issue of authenticity in traditional culture.  Of course, there were the incredibly long greetings and thank yous that were expected of any and all social interactions, but to what extent were these actions some kind of front?  Is Senso-ji really the oldest temple if most of what we currently see was built only a few decades ago?  The stalls upon stalls worth of kitschy souvenirs lining the walkway toward the temple doesn’t help its authentic image.  In reality, it seemed almost Disneyland-like, and if I were looking to go to Disneyland, I’d go to the one located not too far away that’s conveniently accessible by metro.  Japan is a country with a culture richer than their ramen broths, but if you said that they were culturally pristine, you’d be lying.

Despite all of the globalization and modernity you could find throughout Japan, the country has stayed relatively insular with it’s own very quirky identity.  It’s ethnic make-up is pretty telling of this; you could easily spot an outsider from a mile away.  But despite the sea of Japanese people, you would find hoards of Starbucks Coffee shops and Italian restaurants.  However, they each had Japanese flair to them that made them distinct. Tokyo, especially, was a postmodernist regurgitation of anything and everything that has ever come into the country but flipped on its head in a way that could have only happened there.  This kind of cultural cannibalism is what made Tokyo so alluring to me because, as much as I thought something was familiar, it wasn’t.  Pizzas with fried eggs on them or tuna crepes are not an every day occurrence... well, unless you’re in Japan.  I can’t really find the words to describe the weirdness that is Tokyo, but I’d rather keep it that way.

Gratitude and the Great LOL of China

It finally hit me that I was in China when I crossed the border out of Hong Kong and entered Shenzhen in order to catch my flight to Beijing.


Shenzhen, the city directly on the other side of Hong Kong that's part of the People's Republic of China, has become an economic powerhouse since the 80s. In just thirty years, Shenzhen grew from just a tiny village to a world-class industrial city which plays an integral role in international trade. It is the epitome of rapid development in China. And it's completely different from Hong Kong.


Going to Hong Kong to Shenzhen was almost like crossing into a different country, probably because that was precisely what was happening (sort of). Like I said earlier, Hong Kong is a Special Administrative Zone of China meaning that it has its own rules and regulations separate than those of the rest of the People's Republic, and for all intents and purposes, is a separate territory. For this reason, flying out of Hong Kong into Beijing is regarded as an international flight. To save some cash, I travelled by subway through Hong Kong to the Chinese border into neighboring Shenzhen for a domestic flight to Beijing.
Upon clearing immigration and customs, my travel partner Tommie and I hitched a ride in a taxi over to the airport. Little did we realize, we had no idea how to say airport in Chinese and our taxi driver has no idea what the word airport meant in English. At this point, we realized that this was going to be an interesting few days.


In all of our previous ports, English was spoken (even in minimal amounts). Even if there was a lot of guessing and gestures involved, the overall gist was communicated. In this case, even stretching out our arms and making engine noises wasn't even cutting it. Eventually, with trust in the gods and a handy guidebook, we ended up at the airport right in the nick of time.


I never imagined that I'd be watching the movie 50/50 on a flight to Beijing, but there I was in Chinese airspace bawling at bald Joseph Gordon Levitt while eating my unidentified plane food (P.S. I recommend the movie very much). Upon finally arriving in Beijing, we booked it straight to the hostel which was a hip, bustling gem full of fellow travelers in the middle of a dark and creepy alley a few minutes away from Tiananmen Square. I grew a greater affinity and respect for hostels during my time in China, and I have no idea why I haven't been trolling HostelWorld.com this whole time.

We had a very brief stay in Beijing; we only had one day to explore the area. Of course, we had to go to the Great Wall of China, and for time and ease sake, we went to Badaling, the closest but most tourist-ridden section of the Wall. While waiting for the bus on a line that winded around for what seemed like a mile (which is not an exaggeration, this is China, after all), we met a duo of students who took us under their wing for the day. With their decent English skills, we were able to communicate, and they helped us to understand and navigate. The Great Wall was stunning, but the experience was diminished by the sheer amount of other visitors on the wall. Of course, we conveniently chose to go on a holiday, so flocks of Chinese tourists were also sight-seeing. There was one point where we were stuck at a portion of the Wall where we were in a traffic jam for about half an hour. Nonetheless, despite the crowds, the awkward slips and falls, and the sad demise of my camera, being on the Great Wall of China is one of those bucket list items that I'm glad to say that I did.

Upon returning to Beijing, I got to walk around the grounds of Tiananmen Square, and other than acknowledging the history of the place, I took some pretty comical photos with the iconic Mao Zedong portrait at the entrance to the Forbidden City.  After the struggle of getting to our new hostel, we realized that we had booked our stay for the wrong night, but there was fortunately still vacancy in a room where we met three young Americans teaching English in nearby Baoding.

After a night of good conversation and a fair amount of sleep, we headed straight for the airport for our next flight to Shanghai.  The reason for our rushed travel was that we wanted to reach Shanghai as early as possible because we had plans to stay in a Buddhist temple in a rural town a few hours away from the city.  Upon arriving to Shanghai, we darted to the bus station only to find out that the earliest we could arrive to the monastery was the next morning.  Unfortunately, we couldn’t contact the temple, and sadly decided that it wouldn’t be smart to go make the trek over there.  I guess something I’ve learned is to be flexible and allow for wiggle room.  You never know what you might encounter.

With more time in Shanghai, I was able to explore another incredibly modern, global city and relax a slight bit from the sporadic traveling of the previous few days.  At this point, all of these cities sort of meld together (and it doesn’t help that the subways look nearly identical).  What struck me most about Shanghai were the skyscrapers and the smog.  The Pearl Tower dominated the skyline which has a small layer of haze which fogged up your view of it.  I guess that’s what happens in one of the most heavily populated places in the world.

To make up for all of the fast-paced city life, I spent my last day trying to seek out some peace and tranquility.  One of those places I visited was the Jade Buddha Temple, a beautiful patch of serenity wedged in between the gigantic buildings.  Just walking the grounds was calming.  I can’t say that I didn’t feel refreshed.  I ended up forking over a few yuan for a bundle of incense sticks used as an offering.  Though I had no idea what exactly should have been doing, I knew that I was supposed to bow three times facing each of the four cardinal directions.  As I did, I meditated briefly and realized how thankful I was to be safe and sound half-way across the world after seeing so much beauty along the way.  It was a pretty uplifting moment.

In all, I was content with my stay in China.  It had its ups and downs, but that’s the case with every port I’ve visited.  In short, I felt a great deal of gratitude.  My trip is coming to an end soon, I know I have to savor every last second of it.

ChinaLite

Hong Kong, a former British colony and now one of two Special Administrative Regions of the People's Republic of China along with the nearby Macau, is an incredible anomaly. In between the glitz of all of the international designer shops (it seemed like every block was Fifth Avenue), you'd find some enclaves of a Chinese identity of yesteryear. Nonetheless, it was an incredibly modern global city full of life and culture.

Since Hong Kong was, like many of the other places we've visited along this journey, a British colony, the more rampant use of English made it a very nice training course for mainland China. Most, if not all people, had a basic understanding of English, and that made it easy to communicate.

Hong Kong reminded me much of Singapore in the sense that it was such a cosmopolitan place with a distinct Asian flair that made it interesting. Both were island city-states.  I regret only spending a little more than a day there because I’m confident that there was so much more to see.  Yes, there was a Body Shop on every block (not even kidding), but there are so many islands to see all chock full of jewels waiting to be discovered. Speaking of jewels, one of the places that I found very interesting was the Jade Market, a small camp of vendors selling a multitude of jade products and other assorted knick-knacks.  It was somewhat like entering a Chinese grandmother’s basement.  While on that note, I also found a small shop of second-hand goods that was actually a Chinese grandmother’s basement full of relics from all around the world that one older woman has accumulated along the years.

I kept catching myself thinking that I was in some kind of Chinatown only to realize that was, indeed, in China.  It took a while to hit me that I was, in fact, on the opposite side of the earth in a place which, since we were children, stood to symbolize exoticism for us in the United States.  No longer was this a recreation; it was the real thing.

Pulling into port in Hong Kong was one of the few times that I decided to wake up at the crack of dawn to see it actually happen.  Though the weather was cold and hazy, you could sill tell that it was marvelous sailing into such a huge city.  You just had so much to look at that you had no idea what to do with yourself.  The best part, though, was seeing a slew of parents waving mercilessly from the dock.  Semester at Sea sets up a Parent Trip where families can join their child through their exploration in China, and a few of my friends’ parents were able to come for the ride.  It would have been great to see my own parents there since I know how much they’ve wanted to visit China.  They’ll get there, I promise.

All in all, Hong Kong didn’t feel too much different than what I’m used to past the fact that everything was is Chinese (along with English).  The beautiful skyline and amazing water views made me feel like I was back in Manhattan.  I even took a ferry across the water between Kowloon and Hong Kong islands which, if I dare say, felt like I was going to Staten Island (except the other side didn’t suck).  But then there were the things that were a little different.  For example, there were multiple levels of walkways; there was the normal street level, but there were often underground walkways as opposed to crosswalks (which were somewhat inconvenient), and there were also networks of bridges and moving sidewalks running along the periphery of buildings that not only linked several buildings together but also transported people above ground.  And of course I made it into the Starbucks where I was happy to fish for grass jelly at the bottom of my Frappuccino.

Altogether, Hong Kong was a very pleasant place, and it was a good starting point for the rest of the week in China.  So much more on that really soon.

Sea-Sickness (Part Three)

If you're following my itinerary, you'd know that I've actually just left Japan, and I'm on my way on the long trek across the Pacific Ocean back to the United States. For all intents and purposes, my international journey is pretty much over, and we only have a few more weeks of finishing up the classes for the semester and preparing for finals. It's pretty sad to think about this all being over, but I'm definitely ready to be back to be back on land and be at home.

On that note, the day after Japan was a nightmare. I was awake for three hours at most because I was bedridden from the rolling waves outside. I'm sure it was a combination of not being forewarned of the tumultuous waves and not being in transit on the ship for more than two days in the past month or so that eventually led to this pretty horrible fate. No vomming this time, which is a plus. However, all my crap is all over my cabin floor, and I was basically rendered unconscious for a large portion of time.

However, after being strongly medicated, I feel just about alright, and I hope that the seas become calm sooner rather than later. I can only hope to make-up all the past entries that I have yet to write (Hong Kong, mainland China, and Japan) before we arrive to Hawaii as well as write/post a few other things (my Global Studies paper and some "in-the-grand-scheme-of-life" type entries) at some point thereafter. In just two and a half weeks, the ship will be docking in San Diego, and it will be home at last for this traveller.

Peace out, cub scouts, and stay tuned for a lot more.

"This Doesn't Suck"

When you think of Vietnam, you probably think of a country ravaged by war. The first thing I think of is refugees. In my neighborhood in the Bronx, there is a huge Vietnamese population living around University Avenue. The Roman Catholic church I used to attend as a kid on the corner of Fordham and University even offered services in Vietnamese. In the late 90s, I remember having some Vietnamese classmates in elementary school, and then an influx of Albanian refugees came in as well and eventually overshadowed that population. Mixed in with the incredibly dense Hispanic population in my neighborhood from places like Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, and Mexico, I can only wonder now whether this early exposure to immigrants (including myself), and especially displaced peoples, has influenced my current interest in diasporic movement and refugee health. But that’s a story for another day.

Now when you think of Ho Chi Minh City, you think of a town conquered by the wrath of communism. C’mon, it was renamed after the North’s communist leader. Nothing says conquest more than naming a place after yourself. Just ask Alexander the Great. Pulling into the city via the Saigon River, there was a sense of uncertainty of what I would find once on land. Coming from America, images of poor, suffering, and powerless farmers come to mind; when thinking about the war, my mind conjured up even more somber things. In short, it was an incredibly pleasant surprise. And it doesn’t suck. More on that in a sec.

If you asked me a few years from now what I would remember about my time in Vietnam, I would probably sum it up as thus: it was an incredibly cheap place with delicious food, friendly people, and remarkable history.

The exchange rate for Vietnamese currency to the US Dollar was roughly 20,000 dong to 1, so with 50 bucks, you’d be a millionaire. For this reason, the US Dollar was often preferred by merchants, though I was slightly entertained by the notion of being a multi-millionaire. I was told before getting to Vietnam that you could probably bargain anything down to a dollar, and so I saw the country as one big 99-cent store. Don’t be surprised if all of your souvenirs come from here. Some of the gems I got were a custom made pair of red trousers with a pink-and-purple paisley shirt for $25 and a whole bunch of Tiger Beer tank tops for roughly $2 a pop.

As for food, I ate non-stop. Not only did I eat for incredibly cheap on a small residential corner sitting in children-sized plastic furniture (google “The Lunch Lady”), I ate at some of the most high-class restaurants in the city for not much more. More the most part, I was stuffed with soups filled with unidentifiable parts and whole garden full of herbs. More often than not, my meal was accompanied by a strong cup of Vietnamese iced coffee sweetened with condensed milk.

The people were incredibly sweet. After establishing that I was American (since many would start speaking to me in Vietnamese thinking that I was a local taking my white friends around), I often got an even more excited and warm response. For a reason I still don’t understand, Vietnamese people love Americans. On the first morning, we ran into a group of students in the park who were part of an English language club who wanted us to partake in their language practice. Somehow, we also participated in a video with another handful of students who were doing a school project. Even better, though, was stumbling upon a communist youth rally celebrating the anniversary of the group’s founding. We were pulled into the action as if we knew what was going on, and it may have been one of the most fun things I did while in Saigon.

I can’t forget the ever-important history which has led us to this point. The Vietnam War, otherwise known as the American War, was only a few decades ago, and there is still clear remnants of that conflict. It was not uncommon to see people with missing or deformed limbs rolling around on skateboards. I knew that I had to do some historical trips while in Vietnam, and that urge was fulfilled by a visit to the Cu Chi Tunnels, an elaborate network of underground walkways used during the war. From watching a really interesting documentary film, talking to the tour guide, and crawling through the tiny tunnels, it finally hit me that this war was real, and with any conflict, there are two (or more) equally valid interpretations. Since the country was once under French rule, a legacy of colonization is evident throughout the city either in architecture, language, or a multitude of other things; the bánh mì is a perfect example. The sandwich made of a delicate French baguette is filled with both traditional Vietnamese meats and herbs with a slathering of colonial condiments and flavorings.

My time in Vietnam was chock-full of different experiences. I was able to sail down the Mekong Delta for a tour using five modes of transportation (three different types of boats, horsedrawn buggy, and bicycle) seeing a contrast between a livelihood very dependent on the river and the bustling city life a few miles away. I got a haircut which made me look like Vietnamese superstar. I pushed my way through the narrow walkways of the Ben Thanh Market and watched the night market set up right around it as I ate my dinner. More than once, I went to a bar called ‘Apocalypse Now’ (like the legendary film about the Vietnam War) which was an enclave for prostitutes, ex-pats, and misfits in a slightly awkward space where the fans were made to look like the propellers for helicopters painted on the ceiling.

One of the days in Saigon, my friends and I ran into an older businessman, a hilarious and sassy man from the United States who was in the country for some kind of consulting job. He was sent for six months to do a job that he completed in a few days, so he was just wandering around for the remainder of his stay. Though he had only been there for a few days more than we had, he gave us some very funny insight about Vietnam. First of all, he advised us to explore. If you see something you think is interesting, check it out. It’s a simple concept, but I think that some of us stray away from our instincts to take risks and discover because we are scared of the unknown. Secondly, he took the words out of my mouth as he explained his experience so far. As peculiar as everything may be to us, he summed it up simply and perfectly: “This doesn’t suck.”

On my last day, on the way back to the ship, I decided to take a motorcycle taxi back. For two bucks, I sat on the back of this dude's motorcycle, put on a helmet, and went along for the ride. The motorcycle is the preferred mode of transport for the Vietnamese; a family of four (+cargo) on a single bike was not a peculiar sight. As we rolled along through the streets of Saigon under the glorious sunset, I realized that this was the way most people saw this city. Dodging pedestrians, with the constant whirring of the engine, there was a kind of solace that I found while on the back of the motorbike. It was a perfect ending.

To say the least, Vietnam was interesting. It was invigorating. It was inspirational. And, indeed, it didn’t suck.

brb.

For anyone actually reading my blog, I'm sorry for not being able to update it recently. All of these ports in Asia are incredibly close to each other, so I don't have much time between them to relax, reflect, and write. Of course, Ho Chi Minh City was magnificent, and it exceeded all expectations. Hong Kong was a blast, and my short stay in Beijing was incredible. And now I'm in Shanghai, and it's pretty darn cray-cray. Clearly, all of these generic adjectives are not very descriptive, and there's so much more than what I'm saying here, and I really hope to have enough time soon to truly think about everything I've done. From sailing down the Mekong Delta, crawling through underground tunnels during the Vietnam War, and getting a custom made 70s gay porn star outfit to serious language barriers, busting my butt while climbing the Great Wall, and amazing hostel stays. From eating unknown foods on a residential street corner, being mistaken as a local, and running into a communist youth rally to using internet proxies to get on Facebook, mastering three major subway systems, and watching 50/50 on my flight to Beijing. There are so many stories, and I can't wait to tell them.

Stay tuned!