Sweet, salty ancient city

Hoi An, Vietnam

Dawn dreams fade into green rice fields and foggy skies.

“It’ll burn off in an hour,” she says looking out at our neighbors and their water buffalo already at work. “Until then I want to sit here and watch the rice grow. Listen, the local garbage truck is playing happy wakeup tunes.”

This lazy behavior will pass for now he thought but once the sun is properly up it’s heads down and pedal to the metal. The ladies of the terrace would not think well of guests that arrive for breakfast with egg already on their faces, awash in a sea of indecision or simply not hungry.

We had traded the roughing it rivers of Laos for the tranquility of the Central Vietnam coast. A stopover in Hanoi, “The Land of a Million Noodle Shops” where water puppet theaters, daily batches of cheap beer and street food abound, was noisy and crowded. Every street corner seemed to be filled with children’s furniture, teas and steaming pots of local specialties

 

Hoi An Waterfront

Hanoi is anarchy with bits of thousand-years-old culture hanging onto the back of a motorbike, horn a blasting. (Editor’s note: Please be advised that what says roast chicken on the menu may in fact be roast chicken feet which many people are said to enjoy.)

An hour away by plane and a short drive delivers us to The Hoi An Greenlife Homestay. Of all the enchanting guesthouses in this world heritage locale, this one stands out. The room is spacious and airy while bright green rice fields dominate the view. The design is thoughtful, the touches plentiful, the location perfect and the attitude of the staff (Ngoc, Dung, Loan and Ni) was beyond measure. This is the way to operate a successful guesthouse. We suggest making reservations at least two months ahead and specifying the rice paddy view.

The breakfast feast (included in the room tariff of $40 for two) starts with delicious Vietnamese coffee (see Sweet Revenge saga coming up) and juice. Our morning munching continues with spicy Morning Glory and plates of accompanying greens. Then we have friend sticky rice and stuffed dumplings (Ban Bao) with an impressive fresh fruit plate and baguette. The main course is comprised of Cao Lau, a pork soup dish similar to Pho which is beef-based. It drowns out any call for fried eggs. Cau Lau is a Hoi An original and one won’t find it outside of Hoi An, so they tell us.

These daily breakfasts were also the site for the final chapter of the “Sweet Revenge” Saga, which began in Bangkok some five weeks earlier. Every morning a bitter struggle ensues between Fresh Coffee Aficionados and what we will call Nescafe Thought. Unless you like coffee that tastes like Dr Pepper you are in for a test of wills. The problem is that coffee is taken with lots of sugar and sweetened milk here. Never mind that the crop is grown in country. Forget that some people actually like the taste of coffee.

     In Lao they say Baw sai naam-tan karuna, which means no sugar please. I managed to communicate that on the last morning in that wonderful country and enjoyed the exchange immensely.

     Therefore, if you’re not paying total attention at all times you will be presented with a hot cup of sweet Nescafe and a smile. The most effective way to get the coffee you like is to ask for fresh coffee (it’s probably hidden back between the mangoes and the goat’s milk) and bring your own unsweetened milk or cream. After a few episodes the server will see that you are picky about your morning brew and make the necessary adjustments, maybe.

     Even after extended conversations about coffee quality here and the caffeine subculture worldwide I still got Nescafe and sweetened milk from the same nice people who would always do what it takes to make me feel special. (Many of our readers have written in suggesting that one skips the coffee thing altogether and go directly to a morning beer or breakfast cylinder, a malt beverage whose taste tends to be more regulated and controlled and does not depend on foreign additives after the fact.)

 

After devouring the fare we grab our bicycles (compliments of the guest house) and towels and head to either to the more local An Bang Beach or Cua Dai Beach, with its bigger hotel scene. Both measure up quite well to beaches in Brasil, Thailand or the Mediterranean.

Alas, the situation threatens to turn stressful. Which beach should we go to today? The Adventures of Bicycles and Buses is a little less frightening on the An Bang route and if the visitor gets off the beaten path and into a village or two he can avoid some of the large traffic on a skinny roadway. The entire matter of survival has something to do with fish streaming together into the sea but I never grasped the concept. (Make note that during the 6 am rush hour all contrived understanding curves, digested explanation charts and personal growth data should be tossed out the window until at least 8 am when the bicycle hoards are culled a bit.)

But back to the beach: Near the main beach road sits Baby Mustard, a restaurant and cooking school in the Tra Que Vegetable Village. Great food woth a garden view. Ask for Ms. Cao Nhu Nguyet and the sesame pork dish. Lunch and dinner served daily.

Ringed by Cham Island and the gentle surf of the East Sea our beach experience comes complete with coconut palms, bicycle parking lots, rows of lounge chairs and ice-cold Saigon, Tiger, Bierre Larue beers for a dollar.

Highly recommended at An Bang is Nam Gia Seafood, a family operation…second stall from the right, next to last bicycle parking area.

“What if the beer isn’t cold?” I ask a young lady from Nam Gia. “You no pay,” she says. What if it’s too cold?” You pay double.” She smiles.

Roaming the beaches here are legions of hawkers we call hawkettes. They sell an ungodly number of pear-brained, non-essential items and some utilitarian treasures such as sunglasses and peanuts. They are smart and funny as a rule, and can be easily disarmed by a personal touch. Soon the conversation can be hijacked to family and children. “What’s your name beautiful lady? Do your children like crayons and balloons?”

Then the mindless selling is on hold for a moment as they size you up. They talk to my companion about hair and skin tones and call me Happy Buddha Belly, which I prefer to accept as a term of endearment.

Pedaling home amid mad cabs and buses, we see that a local man named Buffalo Yung will pose with his oblivious animal for one dollar. His new book How To Placate an Angry Water Buffalo reportedly comes with an assortment of favorite water buffalo snacks meant to sooth the savage beast. We stop. How could we not?

After six hours in salt water and sand a shower is heavenly. Then a stroll to town for dinner. The stalls are still jammed with junk and the hawkers are busy. The crazy drivers now have lights on their vehicles.

“Hello. You buy something?” rings in my ears. Through the narrow streets we pass people selling everything from cycling tours to baskets of squid. You see a kaleidoscope of quick movements, vivid color and motorbikes, cooking schools, designer sunglasses, spas and a throng of tailors that will make you a new suit in 24 hours.

Vietnamese food is one treat after another. One can sample rice pancakes at Tam Quang Minh, a local vegetarian eatery on Ly Thai To Street near our guesthouse. Ban Xeo (the pancakes) are filled with bean sprouts and other vegetables and/or shrimp served with greens, pickled vegetables, and spring rolls all wrapped in rice paper. Add hot sauce and dip the whole concoction in peanut sauce. Go on. You know you want to. Also Blue Dragon Café on the Thu Bon River next to the Hoi An Market is good and the hosts very warm. Vietnamese specialties are the draw at Ong Bee Lounge, on Nguyen Duy Hieu near the Central Market. Cam Ga signs are everywhere – famed chicken and rice dish. Of course, the most famous Vietnamese dish – Pho – (fur), delicious beef and noodles, is everywhere.

NOTES:

*Fly to DaNang from Hanoi or Saigon (HCM City), then 45 minutes to Hoi An for $20.

*Never saw cops or soldiers or crime in Hoi An in two weeks.

*No detectable animosity toward Americans? Average age there is 21.

*“Chinese were in Vietnam 1000 years, the French for 150 and the American 15” – appraisal by Vietnamese friend.

*If you are hungry in Vietnam you haven’t been paying attention

Another day, another dong?  According to my calculations I saved $387 on gasoline and toilet paper in two months while traveling. Saved $85 by not buying the cute baby monkey in Nong Khiaw, Laos = $472 to get through April and May.

– Kevin Haley

 

 

Password and user name needed at Pearly Gates?

(Gunnison) Persons wishing to enter the kingdom of heaven this spring may be required to provide a password and user name at the gates. The adoption of these data safeguards looks to be an attempt to control hackers and identity thieves, even at this celestial capacity.

The passwords and user names should be chosen/determined by the individual candidates and must be registered properly so as to coordinate entry when that entry comes up. Passwords will not be sent to hopeful recipients according to stipulations on www.paradise.com, the heavenly web page.

“This is going to be a problem for people who have yet to master computers,” said a high-level source who talked like an archangel or maybe even looked like Saint Peter himself.

Passwords must be 10 letters long with no numbers included while user names should be no longer than 15 letters and should include at least one number and one capital letter. Zip codes, telephone numbers and Social Security identifications or winning lottery combinations will not be accepted.

For most people the inclusion of passwords and user names is merely inconvenient while for others the news has come down like the initial impact of a cold January toilet seat.

 

COLONA MAY GO OFF DOLLAR STANDARD

The town of Colona has announced that it will likely pursue “other means” for conducting business and paying debts. Abandoning the dollar as legal tender may be in the works due to a sluggish economy and consumer confidence statistics pointing to further fiscal pitfalls.

Right now residents here are trying to determine a course of action that might substitute Cloonies for dollars or simply go to a structured barter system utilizing local assets such as venison, trout, marijuana and firewood. Cloonies are paper currency still backed by gold and silver harvested from mining sites in the higher mountains. Locals say they have stockpiled enough of the precious metals to finance a railroad.

“At least we adhere to a standard,” said one private party here. “We don’t just go around printing paper money and then throwing it at problems like some gov’ments have been known to do.”

 

Avalanche of Red Tape Closes Pass

(Silverton) The Riverside Snow Shed and segments of highway along Ruby Wall continue to be blocked by massive red tape. Often a symptom of later spring melting and refreezing conditions, the bureaucratic slides have arrived early this year.

Although the exact data remains buried, state officials think the slide “happened in the middle of the night when nobody was watching”.

Instability of this genre is most likely to occur in the spring, especially when the state legislature is in session.

Several local agencies have quickly denied involvement, going to impressive lengths to distance themselves from responsibility only to discover that the avalanche would be classified as a natural disaster, a status that does not demand accountability.

Meanwhile all snowplows, front-end loaders, honey buckets and snow blowers have been summoned to expedite the removal of the red tape. Dung beetles are on standby.

“You thin snow freezes hard? Try red tape,” said one specialist on the scene. “Red tape is, by design, almost impossible to cut through. I just hope we get to blast. Dynamite is far more fun than a pick ax.”

Governor Hickenlooper, when asked to comment on the affect of the roadclosure from his desk in Denver said: “Where?”                                                                                                   – Kashmir Horseshoe

O’Sullivan’s Last Sip

 This story was first told by my pipe, peat and potato grand daddy. Then, later in America, we heard that version out of the mouth of me Da. Either way it’s a keeper. As my own dear mother put it, “Your father could go on for as long as the porter held out,  but he was nothing compared to that noble liar that stood six foot three in your grandfather’s boots.”

We always thought grandfather’s stories were of the highest quality because he never let up. He told them over and over until even he believed every word to be the God’s Truth. If not, he practiced hard at making it so. To take away an Irishman’s creative conversation is like taking wings away from the birds, clouds away from the sky. It’s almost like lending an ear to the loquacious with nothing to wash down the words. Parched like the Snakes of Courtmacsherry. Dead air.

See what you think.

I remember the old man grabbing for a smoke wrapped up tight in his Mizen Head blanket. It had been a departing gift from his sister, Kathy, who created the thing while summer raged on, for at least two steamy weeks, on Ballinskelligs Bay. Grandfather had come to Buffalo in 1922, the year Ireland had become a Republic. The rebel faction had finally succeeded in convincing the English that they had worn out their eight hundred year welcome, but the economy was yet no better for it.

“You ask how Paddy died, children…well I’ve bloody told you. He fell off a ladder while painting the local courthouse. It was quick curtains. He didn’t suffer that we know of. Now that was a time in America! Back in Ireland the only way a bloke like Paddy would get near a courthouse was on his way to jail.”

 

 

My grandpa feigned irritation to make a point. His many forehead folds, coming to a frightening fruition just above his left eye socket, reminded one of a pierced pirate grown angry at the sea. It was also the look of a man who had aged early, struggling to keep the landlord at bay in Ireland, and his family fed in America.

“Now ‘yis shut up and I’ll tell you of his wake, the finest I can recall. There were people from all over Buffalo, some from Boston and New York. Even a few from the Prod side of the family up in Nova Scotia. All the close lads were hunched up against the casket swilling Guinness and wee glasses of Tyrconnel. At first everyone was almost mute at the sight of poor Paddy O’Sullivan all dressed up in the box. His widow, Mary O’Sullivan looked grand in her grief.

“Too young a man to go so soon,” wept the widow, Mrs Walsh.

“Have you ever seen such a lovely corpse,” echoed the boo bird spinster Mrs. Brennan, her bony hand on the coffin.

“I’ll have another porter,” whispered Mrs. Nolan, herself creeping up on the ripe old age of 90.

Paddy’s mates had gathered within spitting distance of the casket as if some shabby honor guard intent on sacred purification.

“His journey could be a long one,” said Johnny McCann toasting Paddy’s memory. “We’d better have another too.

“What will we do in our paint clothes without Paddy’s singing?” asked Mickey McCormick, a man who had spent the better part of his life slapping paint on some of Buffalo’s finer homes. ‘Tis very sad and no amount of whiskey can make the pain go away,” he cried, “but we can at least try.”

And so the afternoon progressed with the entourage at Paddy’s feet growing larger as evening approached.

“Bring me another pint too, would you Martin?” asked Michael Maloney, a brick layer who had gone to high school with the deceased. “A lovely man was he, none too smart mind you, but lovely.

“We haven’t seen Nellie Boyle,” said Brian Donovan, a third cousin of the deceased. “She and Paddy went round and round before she met up with Harry whats-his-name. That lad had turned to the life of whiskey. Teeth of the Banshee, the man was a disgrace! A sadder fiddle tune I have not heard. The souls of Irish sailor boys! God save the Orange and Green, and give me one more.”

“Oh, you haven’t been around,” answered McCormick. “He’s all dried out and starched up for his own funeral. Look at him, repentant and sober. Pathetic little man, saints preserve him.”

Another voice chimed in: “It was always a good idea to keep an eye on Paddy when he was around your woman, God love him. I wouldn’t trust him any farther than the porch, meself.”

Soon the topic turned to the parade of attendees.

“Look, there’s Annie Collins,” said McCormick. “She’s a wild one. Almost looks like an angel in her black. I wonder what she’s wearing underneath it all.”

“Martyred Christ, lad! Have you no respect for the dead?” chipped McCann.

“Oh but she’s quite well alive,” was the response from Mickey McCormick, “and I dare say that after another whiskey punch may be prime for the plucking.”

“A wake is no place for your womanizing,” warned Mrs. Nolan who had overheard the conversation. “Have some respect for poor Paddy up there. His rambling days are over ever since he lost to the ladder yesterday.”

“Look there’s that Colleen O’Shea. Out living in the suburbs, she is, with that Italian. I recall her wandering the streets of Cobh, her hand out for bread. Now she’s got her own car! Her husband even lets her drive it!”

“Shameful,” plied Walter Brannigan, covering his son Eddie’s ears playfully as the gossip grew.

“Paddy used to keep company with that one before she struck Sicilian gold,” said Marty Callihan, “but if that’s the worst of him he surely lived the life of a saint.”

As the beer and porter flowed the conversation flowed right along with it. Soon there were songs of Ireland and songs of children leaving the ould sod for a better life in Australia or America. There were more songs about Kilkenny and Killarney and Kenmare. Songs of West Cork. Rebel songs. The lilt of it all, lubricated with eternal stout, was astounding and all of Paddy’s faithful were quite impressed with the charm and wit, to be relied on heavily at a time of distress.

“Mary Cronin, is it?” burped Michael Maloney as a pretty young lady entered the inner circle.

“Oh, and there he is,” she bowed her head, fingering her rosary.

“If I could just get her away from the rosary and into a glass of porter the night might not be so very cold,” whispered Michael to his friends. “She’s a fine one…”

“I hear she had a thing with Paddy, at least the way he, God bless him, use to tell it. Quite the live wire, herself,” quipped Maloney.

And there it was. Thirsty brethren courting Paddy one last time, mourners dragging themselves across the smoky parlor, whiskey disappearing at a frantic pace, church bells announcing the end of another March day, Paddy up there smug in his lace curtain casket. The poor, the well-heeled. Relatives and friends all in attendance to send poor Paddy on his way.

“More ice for the corpse!” shouted Mrs. Brennan, who had now taken over a mistress of ceremonies for the while. “Buried Wolfe Tone! The man is melting. The next thing ya know he’ll be dehydrated!”

Someone came forth with a bucket of ice and gingerly poured it over Paddy’s limp body.

“Hand me a few cubes for me porter,” said McCormick with a grin. Paddy won’t miss them.”

A song was forming in the sides of their mouths. More pours and more foam: “Good-bye dear Paddy, Good-bye me lad, Lucky in love and laughter, a passing oh so sad.”

Michael stood up and gazing at Paddy announced that he was about to take on the bar with a frontal assault. Orders were barked and he was off to fill glasses. Somebody then managed to spill porter on dear Paddy much to the chagrin of Mrs. Brennan who made herself busy cleaning up the mess.

“And the whiskey told stories,

as parades filled the door,

soon nobody was talking

’bout darlin’ Paddy no more!”

It was eleven. Many of the mourners had adjourned. The priest had gone home and the ladies began clearing away the mountains of food that had once crowned the wake. A final toast to Paddy, to someone, to Ireland’s honor, to the shamrock, to that gray, dead man in the lovely black suit up in the nice velvet box.

“I really didn’t know him well,” said Philip Healy who had came all the way from Ohio, but I thought I’d pay my respects, his mustache covered in foam.

“We worked together back in Hell’s Kitchen before moving up to the lake,” said Sam O’Neill. “I hadn’t seen him in ten years. Faith! The beer is still cold.”

Soon the company had dwindled down to just a few. Most now had their backs to the casket intent on socializing with the living. Occasionally someone threw another bucket of ice on the corpse. A late mourner strode by the guest of honor engaged in tardy tears. Small mumbles turned to laughter at a moment’s notice.

“I’ve got to get another bottle,” said McCormick. “There’s one in me room.”

“Let the cat out while you’re up there,” shouted Mrs. Brennan. “Marty, you go with him to make sure he doesn’t fall on his fat arse.”

The two men rose and it was Michael, I think, who first laid eyes on the empty casket.

“Wrath of the fairies!” he shouted. Paddy’s gone!”

The others jumped up as one and were scared out of their wits.

“Where could he be? Who could have taken him? Is it the witches? The leprechauns themselves?”

They all looked around at each other for some explanation but none was forthcoming.

“We must find him before he… he, hurts himself further,” said McCann.

“Yes, find him before his grieving widow, Mary, finds out he’s taken leave,” said Maloney. “If he’s out on the town she’ll have us all by the necks!”

And so, as is often the case with the inebriated, an impulsive, poorly organized search was mounted and all of the men ran out of the funeral parlor in different directions desperate in their quest. They searched the docks and the parks of Buffalo. They wandered along the lake calling his name. No Paddy.

“I’m beginning to feel a bit foolish out here looking for a dead man,” said McCormick. “We’ve looked in the pubs and even at the union hall.”

“How hard can it be to run down a dead man in a rented suit?” said Mrs Nolan. “Keep looking. If we don’t find Paddy there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Aye, and all this grand party for nothing,” added Maloney.

Hours went by. It was now half passed three. The bloodhounds had scoured the city, had shaken down Buffalo with a fine tooth comb. Now they were getting thirsty again.

“Let’s call off the search and go back to the parlor,” said Maloney. “Maybe something has turned up.”

Slowly the red-eyed entourage made its way back to the wake, and there, to their great surprise was Paddy, in all his horizontal splendor, a slight smile on his face, but still pale in his casket.

“Did you see Paddy come in?” asked McCann to a residue of sleepy guests.

“No, we didn’t,” was the answer. “The poor man has been lying there all the night. Will you show some respect!”

“Give us all one,” said McCann. “I think we need it.”

As the clock crawled toward dawn the assembled gathered back at the foot of the coffin. Not sure of what they had witnessed each man was about his own thoughts. Had Paddy grown bored at the slow pace of his own funeral? Was he really dead? Where would his soul go for all of eternity?

His shenanigans had grabbed the front pew. He was once again, maybe for the last time, the center of attention. The next morning the casket bearers showed up early intent on putting poor Paddy firmly into the ground. Perplexed and talked out, they went about their sullen chore unable to forget Paddy’s last jig.

Years later the riddle had not been answered. It still lay curled up at the foot of the casket or in the hearts of Paddy’s children. Were the pookas busy that night? No sense getting your locks up. We’ve got porter here. Go ahead cleanse your pallet, love. Let’s raise a glass to darling Paddy! After all, he couldn’t be expected to hold it for eternity.

Who’s to say the dead aren’t thirsty too

After howls from the dark banshee,

It seems all too clear

Paddy filled up on beer

And just got up to pee.

                                                                                                         -Kevin Haley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Icy Streets and Leash Laws Clash

(Crested Butte) The town council here may rescind a 150-year-old leash law, due to safety considerations, on Crested Butte’s icy streets and alleys. The action came Monday night as elected officials argued the merits of the long standing ordinance compared with the safety of its dog-walking citizens.

Arctic weather and seasonal moisture here have combined to create treacherous conditions, especially on the town’s north-side streets and alleys. Even Elk Avenue gets a little dicey early in the morning and after sunset.

When a pedestrian mixes an already precarious stroll with approved dog walking methodology a chain reaction is likely to take place. The walker often finds himself flat on his face, horizontal with the pavement, compliments of his  over-eager mutt. Of course, a well trained dog, accustomed to healing, will not create such a hazard but even the most well behaved animal cannot be expected to perform to perfection with all the distractions (canine and otherwise) common to the town limits.

“We need leash laws in Crested Butte or we’d have dogs running around everywhere,” said one councilperson. “The restrictions are necessary for the safety and well being of the animal as well as for the general populace. However when butted up against icy sidewalks and dangerous streets we must reconsider the legislation.”

In a rare departure from existing policy another councilman warned that a slick walk at the receiving end of aggressive canine thrust could easily result in injury, and possible lawsuits.

“If we just rescind the law during periods when the streets are bullet-proof  we might save everyone a lot of hassle,” he said. “We could operate along the lines of the parking laws with certain areas off limits on certain days. We could put up signs all over telling people when and where they could safely walk their dogs.”

Taking no action of the matter and leaving decisions in the hands of the people was not an option, according to the first council member who insisted that maintaining the current status would not solve the problem and that allowing people to police themselves was ridiculous.

“That’s like a Washington lobbyist volunteering for military duty in Iraq,” she said. “It may look good on paper but it will never happen. If we just suspend leash laws until mud season we should avoid disaster. When the real thaw arrives we might even implement higher fines for dogs at large and recoup our losses by June.”

After an hour of proposals it appeared that the law makers would suspend the leash laws for a trial period.

“Either we terminate the law altogether or groom Elk Avenue,” laughed one rogue councilman sitting in the back of the room. “What about protecting drunks and persons too busy talking into their cell phones to pay attention to the conditions? What about flatlanders unaccustomed to negotiating ice? They are people too!”

He then angrily departed the chambers, slamming his laptop, hurling his Sorrels and designer Italian sunglasses into the hallway for dramatic affect.

In other developments the remaining council members voted to deny further liquor licenses to canine groups (the first such action taken toward any applicant in over 30 years) and to ban heated dog houses due to cited high energy use in the often inefficient dwellings. Critics of the action say the council is merely punishing outside dogs for any part they might have in the crisis.

– Fred Zeppelin

 

Inventor of Panty-Hose Found Strangled

(Montrose) The woman credited with developing and marketing panty-hose was found near death at Sea View Apartments here this morning. A victim of her own shallow devices, 98-year-old Ruthie Roosterson, was cheated and released at St Roscoe’s Memorial. She expired some three hours after her check cleared.

Police have a suspect in custody, a Pea Green chemist and former La Spezian restauranteur Maude de Flippante, who has repeatedly claimed to have invented panty-hose three years before Roosterson. Flippante, then a resident of the Limousin Region of France (see civilized countries under Europe) was promptly arrested and may get the death penalty due to what the court called “tasteless crimes against the comfort, sensuality and libido of all”.

He had publicly threatened to strangle Roosterson at a fashion show in Berlin in 1990.

Flippante is no good,” said his former mistress with whom he escaped a racketeering charge in suburban Paris in 1984. “He stowed away in a case of Martel and didn’t share.”

Roosterson’s eager heirs were notified as to the dire misfortune last night. Authorities informed the lot that there was no money to inherit since Roosterson had squandered her fortune at craps in a Tawaoc (Colorado) gambling casinos over the past few months. Most of the holy expectant remain in seclusion, fiscally devastated by the turn of events.

The sole suspect plans to plead innocent on all charges despite incriminating DNA samples found on the death scene. A trial/barbecue is planned at Pea Green Hall later in the month. Bring a covered fish.

– Landover Pigeone