I'm not angry, I'm just Hanoi-ed

I didn’t intend to stay in Hanoi. In fact, I would have never entered this enemy territory if it hadn’t been for my friend Hai, and his generous offerings to crash on his living room sofa.

For the first seven days and seven nights in Hanoi, Ben and I slept, lounged, left empty pistachio shells on the floor, and otherwise made ourselves at home in Hai and his British roommate, Ben (aka UK Ben’s) living room. We rarely left the house. We would wake up and watch Hai and Ben leave for work in button down shirts and dress (no pleats) pants. We would still be lying on the sofa as we greeted Hai and Ben return from work. We would (still) be lying on the sofa (and still in our pajamas) as various visitors passed through the house. One morning, around noon, Hai’s friend Patrick arrived and we convinced him to spend the entire day lying on the sofas with us. We listened to music and talked about a number of pressing matters, including current events, favorite juice flavors, Israelis, and top Disney cartoons. Patrick sang songs from Aladdin and The Lion King, which, he claims is the best Disney cartoon ever made. I told him it was Aladdin hands down. Ben stared at us in disbelief that this conversation was actually taking place.

Among all the expats that we’ve met in Hanoi, Ben and I have discovered that Patrick works the least. He teaches English to full grown adults five hours a week. When he’s not hard at work (for five hours a week) he is either complaining about how stressful his (five hour a week) job is, or he is chasing flies and mosquitoes with his electric fly swatter. The look on Patrick’s face when he watches a fly being electrocuted on the current-filled wires of his swatter is disturbingly… priceless.

Since our arrival, Ben and I have spent the majority of our time with Viet Kieu. Now, now, gentle reader, please don’t fret. Despite the strange, foreign-sounding name, Viet Kieu is not one of those limb-destroying diseases that resulted from Agent Orange being sprayed throughout the nation’s natural landscape and small, unassuming villages. Viet Kieu is not the name for all the communist officials roaming Hanoi. The ones that still wear military fatigues from head to toe, including green hard hats and carrying the longest, most intimidating AK47s I’ve ever seen. No, Viet Kieu is a term for people like me. The ones that were raised listening to story after story about the good life back in Viet Nam from an overly nostalgic parent. We’re the ones that celebrated Tet in our cold Minnesotan living rooms, listening to the sound of firecrackers recorded on a cassette tape. We watched as our parents would take naps after lunch, or look at disgust at the amount of cheese sprinkled on top of their complementary salad from Red Lobster.

And much to our parents’ horror, we’ve returned to Vietnam. In droves. Ben and I have met Viet Kieu Fulbright scholars, Viet Kieu English teachers, Viet Kieu journalists, Viet Kieu undergraduate students, and Viet Kieu vagabonds (ahem, ahem). It’s been an enlightening experience. From the moment that we’ve arrived to Hanoi, Ben and I have felt like we’ve been adopted into a large extended Viet Kieu-y family. And I guess that makes Ben the white adopted son. But that’s okay. We don’t let a day go by where we don’t remind him that he’s adopted.